A Wicked Way to Burn

by Margaret Miles

  “And now Jack will look something of a hero,” Longfellow added, smiling at the irony of the situation.

  “Maybe it won’t be such a bad thing,” Charlotte told him gently, remembering again what Esther Pennywort had told her.

  “Even though he tried to kill you, too, Carlotta?”

  “But I don’t think he did, Richard. Remember, he’d already put ground seeds into the snuff he carried. If that same mixture was what he put into my tea canister, he meant no real harm. My illness might have been as much from drinking an infusion of the tobacco, as the other. I doubt if he would have realized that.”

  “But how on earth did you know enough this morning to warn me about Adolphus Lee?” Diana asked her, a slice of red apple in her hand. “I can understand why Captain Montagu suspected Lionel Middleton was here. But even he didn’t know for sure who Lionel was, until his former shipmates identified him. You concluded it was Lee from the other way around.” She shook her head. “I don’t see how.”

  “Mr. Lee gave himself away twice, really. I finally realized that he must have lied, when he said he’d heard Lydia Pratt talking to Middleton in the room next to his—remember? Because Lydia, with her love of meddling, never mentioned it to Captain Montagu when he questioned her. She couldn’t have, since it never happened. She went along with Lee’s story because she thought he’d invented it for her, to make it seem they hadn’t been together on Tuesday afternoon. The truth, of course, was that they’d been very much together. And Lee had no real reason to make up that lie; he certainly hadn’t been challenged. The discovery of their … activities together only came on Friday. But he knew Lydia wouldn’t refute the story, and must have decided that it added a little sauce to his claim that he and Middleton had been inside the inn at the same time. When she knows the rest, Lydia Pratt will be more than a little ashamed of not having told the truth before … especially when she sees that Lee—or rather Lionel—only used her. I don’t suppose Lydia has had many offers of that kind before … certainly not from a man so attentively energetic, which made Lee, or Lionel, all the more difficult to resist.”

  “But still, you only suspected—”

  “But when I did, and I saw his eyes again, I remembered the way the old man had looked at me on the road. It’s possible to disguise quite a few of one’s features and intentions, but the eyes generally give the game away. Don’t you think?” Charlotte queried, looking from Diana to Edmund Montagu.

  For the moment, Diana said nothing. Then Montagu took the lead.

  “Lee, or I should say Middleton, will go back to Boston tonight under close guard. I have little doubt that his trial will be a brief one. By the way, what was left of the gold that he paid to Lynch has been found in the mill. It seems it had been under floorboards that were warped by the fire.”

  “What will happen to Jack now, do you think?” Charlotte asked Montagu, feeling a pang for the man’s family.

  “I imagine he’ll be tried for attempting to poison you. If you’ll accuse him.”

  “Do you think I should accuse a local hero, Captain Montagu? I would guess it might do me more harm than good.”

  “It’s possible you’re right, Mrs. Willett, and I’ve no desire to meddle in village affairs. At any rate, Pennywort is now in the inn’s cellar. Perhaps it would be best for his wife to have him back, after his day in court for the way he stopped Lynch.”

  “You had some opportunity to speak with Lionel Middleton as well, I suppose.” Longfellow had just burned a finger on good English cheddar, and examined the digit as he spoke. “What, exactly, is his story?”

  “Apparently,” Montagu continued, dipping a piece of apple more cautiously into the pot, “when Lionel survived the wreck of his ship, and found he was listed as dead in the Canaries, it was a simple matter to adopt a slight disguise, sign onto another ship, and return to Providence, where he’d sailed from originally. His brother had disinherited him long before, after a family quarrel. But Lionel realized that if his brother made another will, and left him out of it entirely, then Lionel might still claim his share as an overlooked legal heir, after Duncan’s death. Keeping his ears open, he learned that there was talk of a new will, made after his sister Veracity’s passing. He knew that with clever counsel, he might stand to gain a fortune.”

  “And yet,” mused Charlotte, “he made himself a good life during the time he waited. Richard said he’d become at least a convincing scientist more than a year ago, and he seems to have pursued his work happily since then.”

  “He had a knack for it,” Montagu agreed, “and his years of travel gave him a great deal of experience. But he was also a man with an obsession—a burning desire, if you’d like. Strangely, if the Crown’s trial against his brother had proceeded, there’s little chance there would have been much left to inherit, after the government took its share. If Lionel had learned of the possibility, he might have reconsidered. Then again, it might only have made him hurry, I suppose.”

  “But how did Duncan Middleton happen to make the acquaintance of Peter Lynch?” asked Longfellow.

  “It was hardly chance. After following his brother for several weeks, Lionel suspected what Duncan was up to with his adulterated rum. Duncan had already made some profit trying the scheme on his ships going to South America. Now, Lionel thought his brother would jump at an inland contact who could help him transport some of his poisonous drink to the frontier. And it happened that on earlier collecting trips, Lionel had met Peter Lynch. Thinking him a likely candidate for a murderer, as well as a smuggler, Lionel approached the miller. Lynch agreed to help him. Lionel told Lynch that Duncan was about to make one of his trips to Providence, and would stay at a particular inn he was known to frequent. Lynch went there and gained Duncan’s trust; after that, it was only a matter of choosing a time and place for the old man’s removal. A letter was written, and Duncan Middleton rode to Providence with a sackful of gold on Monday night—gold meant to pay for stores and transportation, which ended up instead financing his own murder. And I suspect we never will find a wagonload of poisonous spirits, because the miller never actually intended to deliver or transport anything at all!”

  “Yet getting entirely rid of Middleton turned out to be more difficult than it seemed,” Longfellow commented, cutting himself another cube of bread.

  “Neither Lionel nor Lynch thought anyone would connect a body that eventually turned up on a beach in Rhode Island—if in fact it ever did—with a man’s disappearance by most mysterious circumstances in a place like Bracebridge. Nor would there be much chance of identifying someone who had been floating in the water for a while, especially one so far from home. And they were nearly right. But Lynch knew little of tides or currents, being neither a sailor nor a coastal man; when he threw Middleton into the water, he didn’t realize he would come back so quickly, and in such good shape. Of course, neither of them knew of my continuing interest in the merchant’s whereabouts, or my man watching in Providence.”

  Charlotte had gazed long into the fire. Now, she spoke again.

  “So they were all entangled in nets of their own making. Soon, the last of them will pay the price. It seems a sad defeat for a man who might so easily have continued to prosper on his own.”

  “A defeat for vengeance, a victory for love—and for a certain handsome Frenchman and his bride,” Diana reminded her, lifting a glass of claret from Bordeaux. “And who would have thought that Paris scent would ever undo a man in such an unusual way? I must say I adore it now even more than before. To all things French!”

  “Are you ready to switch your allegiance, then,” asked Montagu in a particularly offhand manner, “to France, from England?”

  “Oh, my dear Captain Montagu—you know we Americans are of independent mind. Most especially the ladies! I think you’ll find it extremely difficult to pin us, like butterflies, to any flag—or alliance.”

  “My employers,” Montagu hurried on, addressing her brother, “will have more for me to do
as soon as I return. I’ll be leaving very early tomorrow morning—”

  “In that case,” Diana interrupted, “perhaps you’d let me come along? I happen to have a riding dress with me, and if you don’t mind going a little slowly … You know, these roads aren’t entirely safe for a lady without an escort. Really, if I were to go back alone, my honor might even be at stake.”

  Charlotte reddened to a shade resembling one of her apples, as she tried to hide her amusement.

  At the same time, a snatch of poetry floated unbidden through the captain’s thoughts.

  Full many a flower’s born to blush unseen.

  And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

  Looking at the two women in front of him, Montagu was quite positive that Gray’s verse hadn’t been brought to mind by Diana. But perhaps it didn’t really describe Charlotte Willett, or this place, either. He found himself wondering just how often Mrs. Willett might make the trip to Boston. And he thought that he would like to have a look at the next husband she chose for herself—just to see what kind of man he would be.

  BY MONDAY MORNING, most of Saturday’s snow had melted in air that was again almost warm. After Lem returned from leading out the cows, Charlotte Willett walked alone through the same clover, and climbed the orchard hill until she reached the low fence on top.

  Perhaps, she thought, she was drawn to the family graves in sympathy with those who had suffered in recent days. It was also the end of another harvest season; time to give thanks for all that had been gathered in, as well as for things held only in memory, but held dear nonetheless.

  When she arrived, Charlotte placed a sprig of rosemary on Aaron’s stone. Reflecting, she looked off down the hili, where she saw her cows … and Richard Longfellow. As she continued to watch, her neighbor turned from his own track through his field and began to climb the other side of the hill, long before he could have known that she was there among the low ring of hawthorns, now bereft of nearly all of their bright leaves.

  When he did see her, he raised his felt hat, and his expression turned from pensiveness to one of pleasure.

  “I was just thinking about love,” he confessed. “My sister maintains that love often turns men into little more than beasts. But I have been concluding that so does the need of it, the lack of it, sometimes—as does a lack of simple respect from one’s fellows.”

  “As I recall, love or the lack of it is rumored to have caused a great deal of trouble in the past,” Charlotte agreed.

  “‘Look to the future’ is my motto. Speaking of that, have you heard what young Fortier and Mary have decided?”

  “Let me imagine. They’re to go ahead and marry now, with Jonathan’s blessing?”

  “The real news is that they’ll soon be going to Nova Scotia, and that they plan to take the children from Worcester with them, leaving the father on his own—which will be smaller punishment than the wretch deserves! I hear a great many of the Neutrals are returning, probably hoping that no one will ever call them by that pitiful name again. I suspect they’d much rather be known for who they are, than what they were. Fortier says he is thoroughly tired of running about, and of living in the woods. I suppose they’ll be quite happy plowing their own fields.”

  “We all need to tend our own gardens,” replied Charlotte, gazing across her farm. “Do you know what’s going to happen to Peter Lynch’s property?”

  “It’s quite likely to wind up in the colony’s treasury, like Middleton’s, although we will be able to keep the mill for the village, since it’s on common land. We haven’t learned of any other relatives, and he did die a suspected felon. All this should do wonders for the governor’s morale. Although I suspect at least some of the gold Lynch got his hands on won’t find its way to Boston, after all,” Longfellow added, with a look that went off toward New Hampshire, or possibly as far as Acadia.

  “I’ve heard some news myself,” Charlotte said with spirit, “about another impending marriage. It seems Nathan has been courting a woman in Concord, and he’s planning to bring her here to live. Knowing Nathan, I imagine she’ll be well worth having as a neighbor.”

  “I hope she’s a match for Lydia Pratt … although our Lydia seems to be a changed woman. She actually manages to speak with respect and affection to her husband, which is certainly a very good thing … though it’s one most of us never thought we’d live to see.”

  “Some help themselves by helping others,” Charlotte replied, glad to have her long-standing opinion of Jonathan’s good sense confirmed once again. Had he chosen, he could have seen to it that Lydia paid a steep price for her dalliance—but it would have cost him a valuable asset. “And have you any plans for the future, Richard?” she queried, quite interested in his answer.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of putting on a little show tonight, around dusk, not far from the Blue Boar. Perhaps you’d like to attend. It seems there are still a few who persist in believing that witches were responsible for an unholy fire on Tuesday night. So I thought I’d treat them to a scientific demonstration. However, I have it in mind to change the formula a bit. For the turpentine, this time, I’ll try substituting rum. And I plan to make a few other adjustments, as well.”

  “That,” said Charlotte, with a smile, “should be most instructive. But if you don’t mind, this time I’ll stay at home.”

  THAT EVENING, CICERO sat under the portrait of Eleanor Howard in Longfellow’s warm, quiet study. Things were nearly back to normal, and he was glad of it. Diana had gone back to Boston with Captain Montagu—God help the man to keep his wits about him, with no one to intervene for him the next time. And Longfellow had gone out to have a little fun with his chemicals, in a bright mood. Now, Cicero looked forward to enjoying a little peace, at least until the next crisis came.

  He took a bite of cake and a sip of tea from a tray on his lap, and looked deeply and contentedly into the fire. Excitement was well enough for some. But after a certain age, he had decided, philosophy was better. He lifted a small volume from the table beside him, and again began to savor its classic phrases as he ran them softly over his tongue.

  The dark face he suddenly glimpsed out of the corner of his eye, as someone tall strode past the window, startled him into dropping his book. There had been something very familiar about the figure, and its apparel.

  It was when the man entered the study itself, and Cicero smelled the acrid scents of burning wool, and hair, and pitch, that the story came to him in a flash. His face dissolved into a beatific smile. Things were back to normal.

  AND FINALLY, ACROSS the gardens, Charlotte, Lem, and Orpheus sat in front of their own fire; this time, it was one that burned in the hearth of the blue room. Lem waded through elements of Latin grammar from a book once used by Jeremy Howard and his sisters. As the old dog watched him sounding out new words, its eyebrows rose and fell to match the reader’s own.

  Meanwhile, Charlotte concentrated on a letter she knew should have been written days before. She would send it to her brother in Europe, and duplicate its information in one to the Willetts in Philadelphia. Even in the City of Brotherly Love, she had found a taste for shocking events, no matter if they sometimes came at the expense of one’s neighbors. That was the way the world went, she reminded herself, dipping her quill into the inkpot again. Life went on.

  Then she heard a rhythmic bumping, as a long tail began to thump against the bare wood floor. She looked down, and followed Orpheus’s gaze to a spot in the middle of the room. Nothing seemed to be happening there at all. It was at that moment that she smelled the familiar scent of horehound, although she also noticed that it was fainter than usual. In another moment, she saw Lem raise his head and curiously test the air. After that, Charlotte watched him yawn and return to his work, and kept on watching with quiet pleasure, while the old dog before her settled with a sigh.

  About the Author

  MARGARET MILES currently lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband Richard Blakeslee, and a black
cat named Rocket. After writing and coproducing short films and videos for nearly twenty years, she now enjoys spending most days in the eighteenth century.

  If you enjoyed the first mystery in the Bracebridge series, A WICKED WAY TO BURN, you won’t want to miss Margaret Miles’ second mystery, TOO SOON FOR FLOWERS.

  Look for TOO SOON FOR FLOWERS in hardcover at your favorite bookstore in January 1999.

  TOO SOON FOR FLOWERS

  A Bracebridge Mystery by

  MARGARET MILES

  Coming in January 1999 in hardcover from Bantam Books

  1764 OPENED WITH A GRIM PORTENT when fire destroyed much of Harvard College during a blizzard one January eve—an event like none other since the creation of that great institution, well over a century before.

  No one was quite sure how the blaze started; some put the blame on logs burning high into a chimney, others on a stealthy burrowing beneath a hearth. Fortunately, few scholars were endangered, for most had gone home for a month of rest. But the college housed temporary lodgers, including Governor Sir Francis Bernard, members of the Massachusetts General Court, and notable alumnus John Hancock—all of whom bravely joined together to fight the conflagration. (As Fate would have it, at least one would be well repaid for his losses that snowy night. Before the year was out, the sudden death of his merchant uncle would make young Hancock the second wealthiest soul in all the colonies.)

  But a far greater threat already stalked the old Commonwealth, which was the reason these men of Boston had been driven across the Charles River to meet in Cambridge. For an ancient plague had once again begun to rage. A dozen victims of smallpox had been discovered in this town before Christmas; of these, all but two had died. Then more sickness, and still more was dutifully reported, until the Boston Neck was awiggle with a tide of people hurrying away, leaving behind flagged and guarded houses, feverish souls, and worried families.