by Oak, B. B.
“Mad, am I?” Wiley bellowed. “Did they call Isaiah mad? Did they call Jeremiah mad?”
That Solomon had the audacity to compare himself with prophets from the Old Testament did not surprise me. What did surprise me is how he could hold the rapt attention of my fellow townsmen.
“What did the dead fiend say to you, boy?” Solomon demanded, looming over Hyram.
The boy gazed up at him and opened his mouth. But no words came forth, only a sob.
“Go home, son. You ain’t no use to me here,” Jackson said, and with that Hyram leapt up and ran off.
After Henry helped Jackson carry the corpse to the wagon, he offered to go along and help him unload it, but Jackson said one of the saw mill workers would give him a hand at the ice house. Henry also offered to inform the Bidwell family of Chauncey’s death, and Beers, ever eager to evade unpleasant duties, gave him leave to do so.
Everybody took off fast as lightning after that. Daggett, it appeared, wanted nothing more to do with Solomon and squeezed himself into the chaise for a ride back to town. Beers offered to take Henry and me back, but we didn’t much care to ride with Solomon either and decided to travel by foot instead.
We walked along the highway in silence as dusk descended, both lost in our own thoughts. Mine centered on Julia as each step took me closer and closer to town and to her. I could not quite believe she was really there at the Walker house, waiting for me, after all these months apart. Whilst she was in France I was at least spared the sight of what I most desired and could never have. That she has ruined all our chances of a life together makes me almost hate her. To feel such animosity toward someone I have loved for most of my life makes me sick at heart, but I cannot help it. I try to remember Julia and myself as we were during our halcyon childhood years, loving each other ardently but without carnal desire. How happy we were in each other’s carefree company. And how happy I had been to see her again twelve years later, my childhood chum now a woman more lovely than I had ever imagined her becoming. At first sight she truly had taken my breath away. And all my manly powers of will. It would not be fair to say she seduced me. I know that. Yet she did—by her every small gesture and smile and look. I never wanted a woman more. And then she made sure, by marrying another, that my desire for her could never be satisfied.
“Adam, might you pick up your pace?” Henry said, breaking our silence. “I have yet to drive back to Concord and bring my sad tidings to Mrs. Bidwell and her daughters.”
I immediately lengthened my stride. “That is not an easy duty you have taken on, Henry.”
“Better for them to hear it from me than from that fatheaded lubbard of a constable. What chance think you Beers has of finding Chauncey Bidwell’s killer?”
“Near to none,” I replied. “Rounding up errant schoolboys or stray farm animals seems to be the extent of his abilities. To be fair, that is all Plumford taxpayers expect of him.”
“And all we should expect of him, too,” Henry said. “We have had disappointing dealings with Constable Beers before.”
“Even so, we cannot take the law into our own hands again, Henry.”
“Why not, if it proves necessary to do so?”
I might well have expected such a response from Henry, for I have learned during our association over the last year and a half that he follows no laws but his own. (And he has also looked the other way when I did what I felt to be right rather than lawful.)
“Since there are no other men in the Bidwell family to take on the responsibility, I will make arrangements with the Concord undertaker to fetch Chauncey’s body home,” Henry said, and we agreed to meet at the ice house the next morning.
Reaching town, we made our way across the Green and toward the Walker house. The white clapboards looked luminous against the purple-tinged twilight sky, and a room upstairs glowed with golden candlelight. ’Twas Julia’s bedchamber, and I could not help but recall our last childhood adventure together, when I hooted like an owl beneath her window to signal her and she climbed out her window and down the trellis. Taking her hand, off I had run into the night with her, my fleet-footed, fearless friend.
Henry bid me Good Night and climbed up on the carryall he had driven from Concord. He gazed down at me with what looked to be pity. He glanced up at the lighted window. And then, without a word, he drove away.
I stood outside the gate and saw Julia approach her upstairs chamber window and look out at me. She raised her hand in greeting, but a rush of emotion against her made me turn and walk to the barn. I unstabled Napoleon, backed him between the traces, and urged him off, away from town. Neither his steady pace nor my breathing in draughts of the cold night air could soothe my unsettled spirit as I drove to Tuttle Farm.
My day ends far more troubled than even it began.
JULIA’S NOTEBOOK
Saturday, 4 December
Oh, how my tears did flow as I watched Adam drive away last evening! Apparently he did not think it worth his trouble to stop by and welcome me back. Went to bed desolate. Awoke ravenous.
I dressed with more haste than care and set out across the Green to Daggett’s Market. When I entered the store the familiar scents of molasses and coffee greeted me, along with the strong smell of burning tobacco coming from the short-stemmed pipes of the men gathered round the stove. They all stopped talking to regard me, but none uttered a word of greeting. Elijah Phyfe tipped his glossy beaver hat to me, however. Even such a slight salutation as that was more than I expected from him. He has never much cared for me. Nor I for him! I have not forgotten how he would rap his ferule on my knuckles for no good reason I could discern when he was the Plumford schoolmaster. He has certainly come up in the world since those days—or at least come up in the town. If a man’s wealth is measured by how many people owe him money, Grandfather used to say, then Elijah Phyfe is the richest man in Plumford, for he has privately lent money to many farmers and invested in a good many town enterprises. How pompous and well-fixed he looked compared to the store loiterers surrounding him as he lounged in the seat of honor, the only chair with rockers.
Mr. Daggett left his place at Phyfe’s elbow and slid behind the counter to assist me. He offered his condolences for the loss of my grandfather and in the very next breath his services as my property agent.
“Why would I need a property agent, Mr. Daggett?”
“You plan to sell your grandfather’s house, do you not?”
That he knew I had inherited the house did not surprise me. Grandfather’s will is of public record, and Mr. Daggett, along with being the town postmaster and coroner, is the town clerk. Moreover, he is the self-appointed town crier, and all who wish to know what he does need only congregate at his store.
“My only plan at the moment,” I informed him over the rumble of my empty stomach, “is to stock my larder.”
I handed him my list, and, whilst he went about collecting the items on it, another woman came through the door. The chatter around the stove stopped once again as the lollygaggers regarded her.
“Ain’t you fellows ever seen a beautiful lady before?” she quipped in a bold, high-sounding voice, staring right back at them. Then she heeded me. “Well, I reckon they have at that. For you are a beauty to be sure, dearie.”
I paid the compliment no mind. Not only was I quite certain I looked wan and worn from travel and hunger and weeping, but my clothes were in need of a good brushup and looked shabby and drab indeed compared to this stranger’s striking costume. Some might have called her apparel ostentatious, but the artist in me much appreciated such a vivid show of finery and flair. Her knee-length coat was of indigo velvet, and beneath it was a many-tiered taffeta skirt of deep, shimmering red. Her veiled bonnet was sea green, and from it sprang forth a frothy white plume. Her hands were tucked into a luxurious ermine muff that I could not help but covet.
Mrs. Daggett popped out of the counting room, looking most eager to assist this apparently affluent customer. “What may I show you, ma’am
?” she said, and without waiting for an answer, opened up the display case on the counter. “A string of jet beads perhaps?”
The stranger shook her head, making her bonnet plume quiver. “It is a string of garlic I am in need of.”
Mrs. Daggett’s sharp features drooped. “Did you say garlic, ma’am?”
“Yes. To ward off that Indian vampyre who just rose up from the dead!”
Mr. Daggett stopped measuring out the pound of coffee beans I’d requested and looked toward Justice Phyfe.
“The chambermaid at the inn called him the Plumford Night Stalker,” the woman continued, “and I fear he will be coming for me next, alone as I am in the world!”
Justice Phyfe unfolded his long body from the rocker and came over. “Dear lady, please allow me to assuage your fears,” he said in a mellifluous tone, raising his hat to her. “I am Plumford’s Chief Magistrate and First Selectman, Elijah Phyfe.”
“How do you do, sir? I am Mrs. Swann with two n’s.” The lady extracted her lace-gloved hand from her muff and offered it to him. “And there is nothing a friendless, defenseless woman such as myself could want more than to have my fears assuaged by an important town official such as you.”
Justice Phyfe gave her hand a gentle shake and held on to it. “The rumors concerning a vampyre in our midst have no basis in fact, I assure you, Mrs. Swann.”
“Was not a man just murdered in the nearby woods?”
“Unfortunately that part is true.”
“And was his body sucked dry of blood?”
“According to the doctor who examined the body—”
“Would that have been Dr. Walker?” I interjected.
Justice Phyfe, who does not like to be interrupted, gave me a brief, dismissive nod and went back to mollifying the exotic Mrs. Swann. “As I was saying, the doctor concluded that the victim’s great loss of blood was due to a deep cut to his neck. And that wound was inflicted by a mortal man, most likely a wandering tramp, and certainly not a vampyre. Is that not what you and your jury concluded, Coroner Daggett?”
The storekeeper stepped forward. “That’s right. Pay no mind to the tattle of a silly chambermaid, ma’am.”
“Did she just make it up to scare the living daylights out of me then?”
“She merely repeated the rantings of fools and fear mongers,” Phyfe said. He patted Mrs. Swann’s hand. “There is no vampyre roaming about Plumford. Trust me, dear lady.”
“Indeed I do, kind sir.” She tilted her face to coquettishly peek at him around the brim of her bonnet. “You have such a commanding bearing that I trust you implicitly.”
His chest puffed up so much I thought the gold buttons on his embroidered waistcoat might pop. “My wife used to say much the same.”
“Used to? Does she say it no more?”
“Alas, she is no more, Mrs. Swann. My dear wife went to her final reward five years ago.”
“My dear husband is also departed,” Mrs. Swann said.
“Ah, then we share the same sorrow.”
To be quite frank, neither of them looked the least bit sorrowful as they regarded each other.
“Do you still want that garlic, ma’am?” Mrs. Daggett said.
“No. This good gentleman has convinced me I do not need it.”
“I never heard tell garlic kept away vampyres anyways,” Mrs. Daggett said.
“Well, a gypsy once told me it did.”
“In Europe that superstition is quite prevalent,” said I.
“In Rhode Island too, according to one Solomon Wiley,” one of the loafers by the stove called out.
“Now there is a man who knows whereof he speaks, for he has had personal dealings with revenants and such,” another stove-hugger put in. His companions bobbed their heads in accord.
“I would take Mr. Wiley’s claims cum grano salis,” Justice Phyfe said. He paused to let us appreciate his ease with Latin, as oft he had when he was schoolmaster. “We cannot let some newcomer from the smallest state in the Union lead us by our noses into the Valley of Fear. Do you not agree, Mr. Daggett?”
“Indeed,” the storekeeper said. Never once had I heard him disagree with Phyfe. “But others at the inquest found Wiley most persuasive.”
“He had no business being there as a juror.” Justice Phyfe glared at Daggett. “In fact, he has no business in my town at all.”
“He declares slaying vampyres to be his business,” Daggett’s wife said. “And at fifty dollars a kill, it could well be a mighty lucrative one here in Plumford.”
“Those who turn fear into profit are despicable,” Phyfe said loftily. Such fine sentiments, however, do not keep him from threatening those with overdue loans with lawsuits and even imprisonment. I was tempted to remind him of this, but held my tongue.
Mrs. Daggett did not hold hers. “Nothing wrong with making a profit by supplying folks with what they want,” she asserted, and with that she turned away from us, opened the trapdoor, and descended into the cellar.
“I overheard other talk at the inn,” Mrs. Swann said to Justice Phyfe. “Talk that disturbed my sensibilities even more than the vampyre rumor.”
“And what was that, dear lady?”
“I hesitate to voice it.”
“Pray do,” he urged her.
“I heard there is to be a slave auction here at the store this morning.”
Justice Phyfe’s regal countenance grew florid. “We do not traffic in slaves in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, madam.”
“Then what meant the chambermaid when she told me a boy called Jack Rabbit will be auctioned off?”
“She was referring to a vendue auction, an entirely different procedure. The town will pay the winning bidder to feed, clothe, and board the boy, who is an orphan. He is called Jackrabbit in jest, because of his . . .” Phyfe lightly patted his upper lip and left off further explanation.
“What is his real name?” Mrs. Swann inquired.
Phyfe looked toward the storekeeper. “Robinson, is it not?”
Mr. Daggett nodded. “Noah is his Christian name.”
“And he has no kin?” Mrs. Swann said.
“Other than his deceased parents, none that we know of,” Phyfe said. “Jackrabbit himself claims to know of none, and we have nothing further to go on. The Robinsons came to Plumford about a year ago, rented a cottage a few miles from town, and kept to themselves. Their boy was left without money or property and hence became the responsibility of the town’s Overseers of the Poor. That would be myself and the other two Selectmen.”
“If he is your responsibility, you should take turns keeping him in your own fine homes,” I opined.
Justice Phyfe shook his head and sighed. “As I recall, you were always coming up with preposterous ideas as a girl, Julia. The vendue system is how we deal with our poor hereabouts. It is a time-honored tradition that has proven to be efficient and economically sound.”
“But is it humane?” I said. “To be put on the block and bid upon must be most humiliating, especially for a child.”
Phyfe waved away my objection. “Jackrabbit will just have to endure it again.”
“Again? You mean he has been through such an ordeal before?”
“Only once,” replied Phyfe in a weary tone. “A farmer by the name of Shrove took Jackrabbit on six months ago, but can no longer keep him. So today we must bound the boy out again to the lowest bidder.”
“The lowest bidder?”
“Yes, of course, Julia. The bidder who offers to accept the least amount of money from the town to keep the boy shall get him. The vendue is really an auction in reverse. Low bid wins.”
“And poor boy loses,” I muttered.
Justice Phyfe did not acknowledge my comment and turned his attention to Mrs. Swann. “Your tender heart need not be troubled about this auction, madam. I would never let a child go to an unsuitable caretaker.”
“Once again you have alleviated my apprehensions,” she told him.
A glowering, dis
heveled man came through the door and, looking neither right nor left, marched over to the stove and settled into the chair with rockers. His pants were so filthy with charcoal dust that I doubted Phyfe would ever place his own elegantly clothed backcheeks in that seat again.
“What a horrid-looking creature!” Mrs. Swann said, pressing a palm to her generous bosom. “Is he going to be put up for auction today along with the boy?”
“No, just the boy,” Daggett said. “That man is a bidder, not a pauper, ma’am. He is the master collier at the charcoal pit, and he’s always in need of laborers to replace the ones who get injured. Don’t know where it would be worse to end up—hell’s fiery pit or Abner Skene’s charcoal pit.”
This greatly alarmed me. “A child should end up in neither place!”
“Skene only bids on able-bodied men,” Daggett said. “A feeble boy like Jackrabbit would hold no interest for him.”
“Then what is he doing here?”
Daggett shrugged. “He must have misconstrued the auction notice I posted.”
Two men in beaver hats not quite as high as Justice Phyfe’s entered the store. Betwixt them was a thin, small boy. He kept his head down, and all I could see was the soiled crown of his ragged, wide-brimmed felt hat. Phyfe left Mrs. Swann’s side and went to greet the two men. Daggett informed us they were the other town Selectmen, and the boy with them was none other than Jackrabbit. The boy shuffled off as they talked and went behind the stove, where he hunkered down on the floor, head buried in his arms.
I felt compelled to go to him. I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but he did not acknowledge my touch. Nor did he look up at me when I voiced his Christian name, Noah. But as soon as Phyfe called out Jackrabbit, he scrambled to his feet and went over to him. Phyfe hauled him up on the counter like a bag of potatoes, where he sat in a slump, head down, and poorly shod feet dangling.
“We will begin the auction forthwith,” Justice Phyfe announced, watch in hand.
“Maybe we should wait for more bidders,” Daggett said.
“No. It is well past the time posted, and I am sure no more will come. Let us get on with it.” Phyfe returned his watch to his waistcoat pocket and proceeded to do just that. “What hear I bid for the care and housing and feeding of this boy Noah Robinson, born . . .” Phyfe glanced at Daggett.