A Wicked Way to Burn

by Margaret Miles

  Lee held the door open, then looked at Charlotte for a moment in all seriousness. “It is important for me to know the world will not despise me for my past sins, which I deeply regret. Is it possible that you, as a representative of this fine village I’ve grown to admire, can forgive me? I would, I assure you, never in the world hurt one of the female sex. On my honor.”

  Just what that might be worth, Charlotte was not quite sure as she heard the door close behind her. And yet, somehow, she did believe Adolphus Lee. She had favored him with a slight nod, and a small smile. But again, she thought as she crept down the stairs, she had learned nothing new or especially useful from this unusual man. Except, perhaps, that it might be only fair to think somewhat differently of Lydia Pratt. Lonely? She supposed it was possible. And certainly, she herself knew well enough what loneliness could mean. Should she try to comfort the woman, when few others were in a mood to do so? So far, she had avoided seeing Lydia and posing the few questions she would have liked to ask. The landlady might indeed be able to add something to the description of Middleton, having spoken to him at some length, as Lee had just mentioned again. Of course, there was another possibility concerning Lydia—one that had already been suggested, which she might also explore….

  Avoiding Phineas Wise, Charlotte walked out into the cold air and shivered suddenly. Somehow, in answer to her last question, she didn’t think it a very good idea. And besides, Saturday chores were still to be done, before anything else could be accomplished. Tomorrow, possibly, she would ask herself once more.

  VERY MUCH LATER, toward the end of the afternoon, Mrs. Willett walked in a corner of her kitchen garden, still considering loneliness. Only this time, after thinking deeply of Lydia Pratt’s situation, she thought of her own. Longfellow had gone off to Worcester, Lem and Warren were in Cambridge, even Edmund Montagu had by this time arrived in Boston. At the moment, Mrs. Willett wished she could rise and sail like winged Pegasus, to see beyond the horizon.

  She stooped to pluck the last blossoms of some meadow saffron, gathering them into a bunch. As she sniffed her nosegay, she even began to feel a little like the unfortunate girl in Monsieur Perrault’s fairy tale. She had been cruelly kept from a ball, while her sisters put on all their finery and went to enjoy the social world.

  But—was a horseback ride to Boston, or Worcester, worth the saddle aches, and possibly even frostbite for her trouble? Not really, Charlotte decided. There was a great deal to be said for taking journeys beside one’s fire, with an improving book … or even one that wasn’t very improving. She would have to ask Richard to pick out something amusing for her from the bookstore on King Street, when he went to take Diana home.

  Curiously, Diana had earlier mentioned something about cooking. That in itself was amazing; given the circumstances, it also seemed highly unlikely. But Charlotte hadn’t been summoned to join Diana this afternoon, which left both of them free to get on with their own business.

  Maybe she was still hoping a crystal slipper would come into her life again, she thought with some regret. Her eyes settled on the clump of horehound holding onto its pale, woolly leaves, growing in the shelter of an old rock wall. Perhaps this year she could bring herself to boil down the hard candy again. She stiffened, and walked on. It was almost as if her mind, now refreshed and cleansed by the astringency of bittersweet thought, could finally turn to the problem she had come outside to ponder.

  Just like the characters in the fairy tale, she knew that real people often spent time dreaming of change, and especially of gain. Maybe it was wealth, or maybe it was position that they hoped for. Maybe it was love. But who, exactly, she wondered, stood to gain in some material way from the deaths of the last several days? In her own experience, death had added to her stock in life more than once. It wasn’t something one liked to think about, but it was something one did think about, after—and sometimes even before—someone died. It was, after all, only human.

  What about Peter Lynch, then? Had the miller left an heir? Had he possessed the foresight to contemplate the certainty of his own death? Surprisingly, many people didn’t. But he certainly had enough property to consider making out a will. He had no family in Bracebridge. She had no idea if he had relations away from the village, or if he was alone in the world. Peter Lynch hadn’t been a man many would have cared to ask about his personal history. She only knew he hadn’t always lived there. Then again, he might not have cared to leave his goods to a family he had forgotten long ago. He might have preferred to leave them to a family he’d planned to have in the future. Could he have promised money to Elias Frye, or even to Mary directly? Her rejection of him had seemed total, but that hadn’t made a difference to Peter Lynch! If he planned to use his wealth as a bargaining point, Mary might at least have heard where he planned it to go at his death.

  No one had yet come forward, and so it was something the selectmen would probably need to look into. She would ask Richard Longfellow, as soon as he came home.

  The cries of a pair of hawks circling above echoed strangely through the newly empty trees. She drew her shawl tighter, chilled in spite of the thin yellow sunshine that fell at a slant onto her shoulders.

  As for the other two deaths: she had no idea who might benefit from Middleton’s removal, nor did she particularly care. Anyway, Edmund Montagu would no doubt see to that end of things. And it was, of course, sadly unnecessary to ask the question of young Sam, who had owned next to nothing—only a well-worn musket, and one gold coin. In fact, at the end, not even that.

  The walk hadn’t given her much insight after all. But an earlier suspicion, while it hadn’t blossomed, had gained another inch of fresh growth in her mind. It involved someone she had hoped wouldn’t suffer from the week’s evil events. Suspicion was not proof, she reminded herself. Nor was it a reason for withdrawing one’s support from a fellow creature—especially one in need.

  She snapped off some last stems of purple asters for the table, adding them to the crocus blooms. Then, Mrs. Willett wound her way to the kitchen door, intending to set some wool-dying herbs to boil. But first, she would make herself a strong, welcome, comforting pot of tea.

  Chapter 26

  THE DAPPLED HORSE traveled over snow patches, puddles, and mud, through a wooded countryside spotted with ponds and open meadow. At first, Richard Longfellow enjoyed watching the sunlit silver trunks moving by, while he listened to the voices of migrating waterfowl. Tiring of that, he began to listen to himself.

  While much of Bracebridge looked to the East for news and ideas, Longfellow knew that most of Worcester—when it looked beyond its limits—looked to the West. New land was still to be had past the mountains, if one could take it. Dynasties continued to be carved out of the distant forests and marshes; Indian trails and war roads led the way. Worcester saw itself as part of the future, allied with Springfield and Albany, and all the other towns just starting to expand on the web of great and lesser inland waterways.

  Had it really been nine years since representatives from all the colonies made their way up the Hudson to Albany, to consider Dr. Franklin’s plan against the French and Indian threat? That these men were not able to agree to its sensible provisions for joining together struck Longfellow as a perfect illustration of the divisive and selfish ways of mankind in general, and those of the men who sat in the various colonial legislatures in particular. But it was all water over the dam now, with European peace upon them again.

  Eventually, he was sorry that his ride was almost over, when he trotted past Lake Quinsigamond and reached the town of Worcester. He saw the courthouse and the Congregational church, the bowing elms of the Common, the large, painted clapboard houses of the wealthy, and the shops and businesses that had grown up around the county seat. But he didn’t stop until he’d reached a comfortable inn on the other side of town.

  There, he pulled his horse up and dismounted at the thick plank steps of the Three Crows, where, sure enough, an unfamiliar boy ran out to take the reins an
d lead the gray to the stable for its dinner. At the door, Longfellow was greeted warmly by the proprietor, who sent him in to her sitting room fire while she went for some refreshment.

  “It’s a brisk day,” Thankful Marlowe commented moments later as she swept in to see Longfellow’s cold-reddened fingers come from under his gloves. Her look told him she approved of his unusually high color. She herself was anything but pale, in either appearance or personality. Everyone knew that Mistress Marlowe had already enjoyed a pair of husbands (both of whom she’d outlived). And it was presumed that, at the age of twenty-seven, she might consider one or two more. The sole owner of a well-known inn and tavern, the widow could afford to pick and choose, which was something Longfellow had been aware of for a little over a year—since, in fact, Asa Marlowe took his leave. For this reason, he now never failed to consider his possible peril when he stopped during trips to and from the western villages. (That Thankful might doubt he would do for her was something Longfellow hadn’t considered, and so he worried while he relished her robust presence. In this, it might be said, he had considerable company.)

  “What are the chances,” he asked, sipping the toddy she’d brought, “that this impostor of ours came through here on Wednesday, possibly carrying some Dutch guldens?” He had already gone over the news, detailing the latest observations and conclusions of those in Bracebridge.

  “To the Three Crows? I’m sure he didn’t. Most of my stopping customers I know, or I soon get to know … although not quite as well as Lydia Pratt, apparently,” Thankful couldn’t help adding with a wicked laugh. “I’ll ask Angus if he’s noticed anyone spending guldens in the taproom, but I think he would have mentioned it to me. We’re all well aware of what the man was said to look like. I tell you, we’ve been watching our shadows since this whole business started!”

  She stood by the mantel, and soon leaned down to prod the logs with a brass poker until she was satisfied.

  “It’s certain he looks nothing like what he did, without his disguise,” Longfellow cautioned. “We really have nothing to go on there, other than the fact that he’s not overlarge … or oversmall.”

  “What about this fiery display of his?” Thankful asked with curiosity.

  “That? Just a parlor trick. I could do it myself. In fact, I think I might attempt it for the effect it would have on the town. They need someone to teach them a thing or two about believing in black magic.”

  “You had better pray they don’t go after you next! Of course,” she continued, sitting and picking up a bowl of nuts, “lately there’s been the usual talk of spirits here, too. We generally hear it more during the autumn. I suppose it’s mostly done for amusement. But it’s not only between the young and the simple, you know. For every girl who casts a ball of yarn through the window to see her future husband pick it up—oh yes, they still do it—there’s a sensible man wondering who might have made his pig sick, or a calf die.”

  She twisted a wooden screw into a walnut shell, and gave her guest the results with a handsome smile.

  “So you were already looking out for something unusual,” Longfellow commented, looking along his outstretched legs to the riding boots he wore today over woolen knee breeches. In the heat of the room, both had become somewhat uncomfortable.

  “Oh, yes. But we’ve always got new people coming through, and many of them are noticeably odd, especially those going to the West. A good half of Worcester moves that direction every year, as well. Lately, though, some of them have come back with stories that are truly frightening.”

  “Pontiac?” He sat up, and set his glass on a table to look at her more carefully.

  “It seems the war’s not over yet, after all. Not his war, at least, and not for the Ottawas. It’s farther away this time, but it’s led to even more fear and hatred than there was before. No one here knows them any more—the Indians, I mean. So they don’t look on them as warriors worthy of respect—and that’s no way to go to war, if you want to keep your scalp! But our young men see only the few who stayed around here—most nothing like they once were. In fact, it’s tragic to see what they’ve become.”

  “What about the French Neutrals in the area?”

  “That’s another charming story. I’d say they’re worried, and with good cause.”

  “About the frontier?”

  She shook her head, frowning. “They don’t have much to gain there any more. No, mostly they fear some of the good people of Worcester, and what they’re likely to do to them, now that Gabriel Fortier is gone missing. They say he’s being hunted for your unpleasant miller’s death. Is it true?”

  “Mmm, although I think it’s unlikely they’ll find Fortier now, unless he’s a very simple fellow. Which I doubt.”

  “I’ve had him here—this summer. He helped clear stones from some of the old fields around the place, the ones Asa couldn’t be bothered with. Gabriel should have stayed a farmer; it’s apparently what he wanted. But his family had him learn a trade. They bound him to a cooper. He served his time, and then was let go. It seems he wasn’t the most pleasant soul to have around, even in a barrel shop—being very sensitive to things that were said of him. You know how men are always going on, especially about politics and the war. Now, I suppose Gabriel is at loose ends, with no tools and no custom of his own.”

  “You know about the girl?”

  “Frye’s daughter? Yes, I’ve heard. Poor thing.”

  “That’s why I’ve come. I plan to see him, if you’ll give me directions.”

  “Oh-ho! Would you like to take along one or two of the dogs? He’s been known to hide from certain visitors, and to turn on others with a cudgel.”

  “I think he’ll talk to me. In fact, I think he’ll be expecting a visit.”

  Thankful Marlowe gave her guest directions to the Frye farm, and walked him to the front door.

  “Good luck, then. Will you be back tonight? No? Come by again when you can stay longer. There’s always a bed for you here, no matter how full up we are. And be sure to give my regards to the very patient Mrs. Willett.”

  “Of course,” Longfellow replied uncertainly. Only after he had ridden away did Mistress Marlowe let out a peal of laughter—which rang so loudly that one of her lodgers stuck his head out of his window, wondering what he’d missed.

  ELIAS FRYE SAT on the porch of his house in the woods, sipping at intervals from a cup he replenished from a stone jar by his knee. As Longfellow rode into the cabin clearing, the gray’s nostrils flared at a dozen different smells and sights that confronted them. Ahead, a wolf’s pelt was nailed to the logs of the house to cure; to one side, the thick red fur of a fox hung beside several lesser skins from the limb of a dead tree. Assorted gnawed bones lay strewn about the snow-spotted yard, between the ribs of broken casks and old wheels, and a few rusting beaver traps. It was a scene Richard Longfellow was prepared for. But it was still enough to disgust him.

  Drawing himself up, he squinted at the unpleasant old person under the mossy roof, who gave him back a false smile. Longfellow dismounted, kicking away a pack of curious dogs who turned out to be more sniff than bite, and tied the horse’s reins to a branch of a tree.

  It soon became evident that Elias Frye had no qualms about discussing his old acquaintance.

  “I did hear tell of Peter being dead—killed by that boy, I imagine,” said Frye, taking another sip and watching Longfellow prod a clump of wood fungus on a stump with his boot.

  “No one knows,” he finally replied, “though as a selectman, I can tell you we’re not making any accusations just yet. But we have a few questions for you, concerning the miller.”

  Elias Frye lowered his eyes; he seemed to be trying hard to recall something.

  “Peter Lynch was here on business,” he finally began, looking up again. “On Monday, it was, he stopped to see me, like the good friend that he is. Or was,” he said with a frown. “Asked me how my family were, and he give me a few jugs of cider, too, as a present. He’s spoken for
my oldest girl, you know.”

  Frye fastidiously picked a bit of food from the sleeve of his filthy jacket, and flicked it off onto the ground.

  “Did you actually want to marry your daughter to Lynch?” asked Longfellow, pinning the man with his eyes.

  “Course I did! Why not? Hadn’t he money, and property? That’s a fine mill to run, too. And didn’t he ask me proper, paying me for the honor?”

  “Oh, I’m certain he did that. Just as Jonathan Pratt paid you to have your daughter work for him for three years, rather than see her go from childhood into the miller’s arms. You relied on Pratt’s sympathy, didn’t you? It was worth money in your pocket. And there was always later for the miller, although he would have preferred sooner. At any rate, you’d have been glad to do another favor for Lynch if he asked you—isn’t that right?”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “Oh, you might say that he was somewhere, when he wasn’t.”

  “I told you he was right here, on Monday.”

  “Yes, even before I’d asked you.”

  “Well, I knew somebody ought to come and ask me about him, because he’s dead, ain’t he! And we both know who did it,” Elias Frye whined.

  “Yes, he’s dead. That’s why you can tell me the truth now, and not just what Lynch told you to say. I believe he was nowhere near here on Monday. I think—I know—he had another errand to do. Perhaps on the coast?”

  At this, Elias Frye paled; even his dogs seemed to sense the fear that had shaken through his narrow body. They slunk quietly in a row around the corner of the house, with hardly a backward glance.