She stood waiting at the door of a dark, shuttered room with a fireplace full of ashes, and a dusty feel about the rest of it. After walking to a pine highboy with soiled knobs, she opened a low drawer. She removed a painted tin box with an iron device over its clasp.
“It’s locked, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself any further, Mrs. Bledsoe.”
“Would you be needing anything else, just at this moment?” she inquired with an air of innocence that would have been out of place, he thought, in a child of four.
“Perhaps you need to attend to something in the kitchen? I’ll do quite well alone,” he assured her. “You go and have another sip of tea.” And he set to work with a pocket knife and a small metal pick, as soon as the door had shut behind her whispering skirts.
The contents of the flat box were, at first, a disappointment. On top were some signed papers promising payment of money borrowed against eventual delivery of goods, at an exorbitant rate of interest; a few hopeful letters from other firms, and one or two that less politely requested payment; lists of cargo; lists of captains and crew members.
Under these, he found two pieces of newspaper, both from the Boston Gazette.
The first was a brief homage to Veracity Middleton, who left no one, and was probably missed by few. A second yellowing page was an account of the wreck of a cargo ship, the Gloria Jones. Out of Providence, she had gone down with all hands on the harbor rocks of a small port in the Canary Islands. It had happened during a hurricane that had savaged the area, and must have meant something to the old man. Then Montagu remembered that under similar circumstances the last remaining brother, Lionel, had perished as a sailor three years before. According to Montagu’s informants, who had taken a look at the city’s tax lists, Lionel’s name had, in fact, been removed.
And then he found the packet containing a series of old wills, most of them made when Duncan Middleton’s brothers and sister were still alive.
Presumably, the first slim document had been made at the urgings of his elder brother Chester, to whom it left most of a very little nest egg; small bequests went to a sister and two former servants. Next came a will leaving out the elder brother, presumably dead by now, and recognizing a younger one named Lionel, who had come of age. He was set to share a somewhat larger fortune with Veracity. A third will specifically excluded a disfavored Lionel, and left the sister all. The fourth and final document, made shortly after Veracity’s death in 1761, named only one person as the recipient of a smallish sum, to be given after the man carried out Duncan Middleton’s last wish. It seemed that the bulk of the now weighty estate, with all other claimants gone, went to—and here Montagu heard himself laugh out loud—a home for drunken sailors, to be established in Marblehead on Duncan Middleton’s death. As the merchant made very clear in a stinging paragraph, sailors were welcome to their vices, which he believed were far less wicked than those of most of his Boston acquaintances.
When Montagu returned to the kitchen, Betty Bledsoe again sat at her table. The gold coin had disappeared, as had several sugary buns from the previously offered plate. Standing, and giving a sly look toward his coat pockets, the housekeeper offered to pour another cup of tea.
“When your master left on Monday last, where did he tell you he would be going, my dear?”
“He didn’t tell me. But not to where he ended up, I’m sure … this place called Brainbridge—or Bracebridge. If that is where he ended up.”
“You doubt it?” he asked with a look that led the woman on.
“I really don’t know. It sounds like one of his tricks to me! I’m not a superstitious person myself, so I don’t see him burning up, like they say. And I can’t see him going off and leaving all this behind. As it is, no one’s told me what’s to become of his fortune—although I can tell you he promised me my living, for the great many things I’ve done for him over the years. At any rate, no one has told me to leave or to stay, so I’m sure I don’t know what’s to become of Betty Bledsoe!”
Neither did Montagu, but he suspected that fate would soon arrange a new life of small pleasures, and considerable future pain, for some unwary son of England.
LATER, CAPTAIN MONTAGU paid a visit to his benefactors at Town-house, who gave him little reason to go further in any particular direction. They did, however, alert him to the curious fact that the wagonload of tainted rum was still nowhere to be found.
Duncan Middleton’s final will had told him very little. On the other hand, what it didn’t tell him brought new questions to Montagu’s active mind.
First, he decided, he would have a well-earned dinner. Then he would view Middleton’s body, and talk with the man who had brought it home. After that, he planned to change his clothing and spend some time prowling the lower parts of town, where he hoped to find a few among the living who could tell him what he now wanted to know.
They said all roads in these parts led to Boston. Let’s hope so, the captain said to himself as he walked to the door of a welcoming tavern. With any luck at all, he might be able to avoid a long ride to Providence.
Chapter 25
SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER, Richard Longfellow had mounted the dappled gray in his stable yard and had spoken severely from his high seat to the small collection of humanity that stood below.
“Stay close to home, the two of you! Tell Cicero if there’s anything you need. He’s seen you through difficulties before,” Longfellow reminded his sister especially, “and I expect you to rely on him.”
At this, Cicero watched the weather vane on the roof of the barn, neither acknowledging the compliment, nor admitting to Longfellow that, in his opinion, the battle to restrict these two ladies’ behavior had been lost long ago.
More than ready to ride, Longfellow leaned down to take up a small package from his neighbor.
“It’s a meat pie, and a flask of perry,” Charlotte informed him.
“I’ll probably be back for a late supper.” The horse jerked his head up into the bright morning air and snapped it down and up again, wheeling while his rider paused to hold on.
“Do try to stay calm,” urged Diana, knowing her brother’s distrust of what he considered to be irrational animals. “They can sense it when you’re not. You really should take the chaise, you know.”
“Too slow. Besides, the ride will do both of us good.”
“Godspeed, then,” his sister sighed. “But I can’t stand this cold any longer!” With that, she turned and went back inside.
“Will you be stopping at the Three Crows?” Charlotte called.
“I will. The horse will need rest, and I have in mind a few questions I might ask Thankful Marlowe.”
“Be sure you measure out the oats yourself. They have a new stable boy every week. You’ll give the lady my regards?” she added, allowing a small smile to have its way.
“If I see her,” he replied vaguely. Longfellow chucked and nudged his horse with his heels, while he loosened the reins. And before any further leave taking could begin, he was flying off to Worcester.
Left all alone in the snowy yard, Charlotte knew Diana would expect her to hurry back inside for another bite of breakfast, at least. She could easily have done so, and revealed her own plan for the rest of the morning, before taking her leave.
But that, thought Charlotte, might be unwise.
Instead, she turned and went her own way. She prayed the weather of the night before would have kept Adolphus Lee inside like everyone else, so that he would now be rested, rather than asleep. But would he be willing to speak to an unlikely (and an inquisitive) visitor? Probably, he would. She even suspected he might be eager to listen to her questions and to answer them, if only for the pleasure of her company. It was a thought that made her less than happy, but it was based on good evidence and sound reasoning.
After a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, Charlotte arrived at her destination. She entered the Blue Boar by the front door, where she was relieved to discove
r few guests inside. In fact, there were only two travelers resting at a table near the ale barrels, engaged in their own business. While her eyes adjusted—and her nose became a little used to the strong smell—she saw Phineas Wise approach, his hands busy at his apron.
“Mrs. Willett! A surprise this morning! How might I help?”
“I would like to have a word with one of your guests.”
Wise scratched his stubble, speculating before he replied.
“You mean my only guest, at present. Seeing you, I half supposed we’d made a date to barter again, as Pm reminded of the lovely cheeses.”
“You drove a hard bargain for the cider, I thought, but a fair one,” she replied, knowing it was the sort of thing Phineas would enjoy hearing. “I can bring you another, tomorrow, but … would you think it out of place for me to see Mr. Lee alone this morning? Only for a moment or two,” she added, seeing the other’s eyes dim. (As a man reliant on the selectmen for the renewal of his tavern’s license, she knew he would be unlikely to allow anything that might influence the town against him. Of course, what its wives, in particular, didn’t know …)
“I would of course be pleased to see you any morning, Mrs. Willett, whenever you might care to drop by. And I believe Mr. Lee is upstairs. I gave him the large room, the one with the windows. But let me call him down,” he offered, still hoping to have his own way.
“I think that Pd rather ask him my question upstairs, instead of down … so the others wouldn’t be bothered … if you see what I mean.”
“Well, better upstairs than outside, since you are no doubt cold from your walk here. It would be unwise to stand too long out of doors—or anywhere else without a fire. A few minutes, of course, might do you no harm. But questions, you say? Is it something to do with Lee’s recent behavior? You haven’t been sent—”
“No! It’s only curiosity, on my part. About the old man on the road. Duncan Middleton.”
“Him, again!” Phineas growled. “First, he’s dead, and now they say he’s alive after all. Which is it to be?”
Charlotte said nothing, but her eyes were grave. Waiting to hear no more, Phineas Wise threw up his hands and led the way up a flight of winding stairs.
“Stomp your foot when you’re ready to leave, if you want me to help you down again. But the kitchen door at the back will be open. They say, you know, that curiosity killed the cat. That is what they say,” he repeated, reaching the middle of three doors and knocking.
A series of small noises came to their ears before footsteps approached, and Charlotte felt her heart race faster. But the sight she saw when the door opened did much to dispel her uneasiness, while it encouraged her lively imagination.
Inside was a cramped room quite unlike the large and tidy one Adolphus Lee had undoubtedly enjoyed at the Bracebridge Inn. Here, instead, were jammed together boxes and bottles, books, and what appeared to be several small wooden presses, all residing on or under a long plank table that stood between the door and a narrow, rumpled bed. In addition, several cases suitable for carting stood around the walls. It had become more of a work room than a bedroom, and might even be heading in the direction of becoming a sort of museum, she thought after a brief look around.
Mr. Lee, Charlotte was glad to observe, was fully dressed and quite alert, as she has suspected he would be. After a moment of amazement he flung himself backward while he opened the door more widely, sweeping a hand inward at the same time with a gallant bow.
“Mr. Wise and Mrs. Willett! What a surprise … and a pleasure, to be sure. Have you come on an errand of mercy? For I’ve surely been wondering what to do with myself this morning. I would be most happy if you would both come in, although …” (he added with a grimace) “I would not be surprised if you thought it… unwise.”
Taking a breath and lowering her head, Charlotte did plunge inside. Even as she heard the grumbling proprietor shut the door, she saw an expression of real pleasure play across the malleable face before her.
“I’m quite delighted! And I promise, you have no cause to fear anything at all while you’re here, at least from me. I believe I’ve learned a lesson, of sorts.”
Hardly knowing what to reply, Charlotte walked to the long table. It was stained and burned with use, and probably came as a temporary loan from the barn outside. Her eye was next caught by a particular box with a glass front, partially covered by a cloth. She thought for a moment to lift it, but decided to send a question with her eyes, instead.
“Ah—now I remember that you are interested in Science. Could this be your reason …? Well, no matter. If there is anything you would like explained, I’ll be happy to try. What you are wondering about at the moment is an example of one of your local fliers, which, of course, are beginning their winter’s sleep, so I had little difficulty in capturing it. I would guess many of your sex would be put off by this sort of thing. But if you’d like to see it more closely …”
Watching her eyes widen, Lee gently lifted the cloth, causing the bat beneath, hanging upside down from a stick, to twitch slightly. However, it kept its eyes tightly closed. Its skin, thought Charlotte, was beautiful—much like a dull satin, worn perhaps for mourning. The thought reminded her of the purpose of her visit, and she resolved to get on with it.
“Have you other … live things?” she asked after a second thought, with an eye to her own safety.
“One or two,” Lee replied. “But perhaps it would be best not to wake them.”
“Actually, I’m more interested today in plant life.”
“Somehow more fitting, I think, for a lady. Or, possibly, a healer?” he asked shrewdly.
“Most of us do live some distance from more educated hands.”
“I see. Well, I’ve pressed several things here, which I’m preserving until I can take them back to a water colorist in Connecticut. You probably know most of them yourself. We’re attempting to catalog some of the marsh plants, which I suspect have more uses than we realize. It may do some good.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Charlotte agreed quickly, glad to speak with a man who gave a thought to the future in something other than terms of his crops and his land, or his business. While Lee probably had little in the way of wealth, he must have enough for his simple needs. He certainly seemed far removed from the worries of most farmers she knew (who generally found it difficult to support the land they’d been left, even while they scraped and saved to acquire more).
“I’m interested, just now,” she said finally, “in plants that might do harm, rather than good.”
“Oh? And what,” Lee asked, absently picking up several pages of notes revised with smaller scribbles in their margins, “… what exactly is it you look for?”
“Something that might produce visions, and could make someone subject to unusual fears. Something that might also impair the workings of the limbs, as well as the mind.”
“Many things might fall into the category you sketch,” Lee said thoughtfully. “Can you tell me anything else?”
“A rash—something to cause a small, red rash about the face. And, something that might be found growing locally.”
“I’m afraid I can think of no one thing, at least not immediately.” Lee took a few steps, and turned. “Combinations of two or more might also be worth thinking about. But I’m scarcely a physician. I, myself, am more interested in the rare specimen no one else has yet seen. Or very few,” he added, smiling. “You see, I have no wife, no children. But if I were to make a discovery or two, and if they were to be called after me, it would keep the name of my line alive just as well, to my mind. And, perhaps, some day, some might even thank me for my trouble. It would not be much, but to another scientist, surely, it would seem worthwhile.”
“I know one or two who would agree with you,” Charlotte returned kindly.
“Mrs. Willett. I must ask you one thing. You are not planning … that is, you wouldn’t think of using this plant on someone else? No—I’m sorry to even think such a
thing. Certainly, you must have quite another reason for your concern.”
“As for that,” Charlotte said, “I do.” Deciding that the man might be trusted with what she’d found, she went on to explain that the supposed Duncan Middleton seen by Bracebridge, and heard by Adolphus Lee himself, was not the actual Boston merchant at all. “What I wonder,” she added as she finished, “is if you have seen anyone here, Mr. Lee, whose voice you might recognize as the one you heard speaking to Lydia—or Mrs. Pratt … but of course, you know …” Her voice trailed off awkwardly.
After thinking for a few moments with his eyes closed, Lee responded. “I did see several gentlemen come and go while I stayed at the inn, and I spoke to most of them downstairs, over a glass of one thing or another. There was the man from Boston who came to visit a niece, he said, who lives somewhere nearby—but his voice was so hoarse you might have taken him for a bullfrog, and I doubt if he could have disguised it, even if he’d wanted to. Then there was Purdy, from Gloucester. But he left the day before Middleton, or whoever it was, arrived. Wait—what about … no … no. Mr. Mayhew, from the Vineyard, of course, could not be the man, for he stayed until the day after the merchant disappeared. There were several others, but they all were far too old to be the gentleman with the good set of teeth you’ve just described to me. Is there anything else about him you can recall? Anything in the least?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Charlotte, turning to go. It had been a wasted trip, after all, for she knew no more than when she’d come in. Now, if she could only manage to leave without being found out…
“You know, Mrs. Willett,” said Lee, moving as well, “the few afternoons I spent with Lydia Pratt were not only for my own pleasure. Please—do listen. I sensed something in the lady immediately, when I first saw her last year … something I recognized, that spoke to me of a loneliness … and a need. I don’t know why I tell you this, and I hope it will not offend you. But as a woman, and a friend of Science, you must agree that some things are only natural. Not that I believe I was right—far from it! But there are certain habits, learned in youth, I’m afraid, which are very hard to break. That, too, for a man at least, and a traveler, is only natural. And I am a naturalist myself.” He grinned, leaping around her to the door, an eager and almost childlike fellow, she finally had to admit.
A Wicked Way to Burn Page 21