by Oak, B. B.
Less than ten minutes later Jackson returned with Beers. Unfortunately, he was also accompanied by two tavern denizens, the old cooper and the young carding mill mechanic. Henry and I blocked the ice house door before any could enter.
“This is not a Barnum sideshow, gentlemen,” I said. “Only Constable Beers has business here.”
“A curious business indeed,” the cooper said, stretching his scrawny neck to try and see over my shoulder.
“Is something amiss with the corpse in there?” the mechanic asked. He tried to nudge Henry aside to get a better look, but met with an immovable force.
“Good Day to you both,” I said, and firmly shut the door in their faces as soon as Henry pulled the constable inside.
Taking in Bidwell’s blood-filled mouth, Beers’s own mouth dropped open. For one so fat he has an extremely delicate stomach, and I feared he would vomit. Mercifully, he managed to contain his breakfast and whatever he’d imbibed at the Sun. He swallowed hard and asked, “Whose blood did he drink?”
“The corpse did not drink any person’s blood,” Henry told him firmly.
Beers nodded as if he understood. “It was demon blood he drank then. The vampyre fed him.”
“No!” Henry said. “Can’t you comprehend that this is a fraud, constable? All you see here is a stratagem intended to trick you into thinking a vampyre was at work or that the dead man has become one himself.”
“Well, which is it?” Beers demanded, only listening to half of what Henry said. “Did a vampyre come into the ice house to feed blood to Bidwell? Or did Bidwell go out and feed on someone else?”
Henry shook his head. “You ask the wrong questions, constable. The only two you should consider in this investigation are these: Was Bidwell’s murderer responsible for this bloody piece of mischief to distract you from solving the crime? Or did someone else have reason to stage such a scene? The solution to this mystery revolves around the principle of cui bono.”
Beers looked confounded. “Kwee what?”
“A Latin phrase that means to whom does this benefit,” Henry explained, ever the teacher. “Who would have something to gain by this vile act?”
“Obviously, a vampyre would,” Beers replied.
“The vampyre is the scapegoat!” Henry shouted, losing his limited patience. “The perpetrator is using belief in such creatures to his own advantage.”
“Tell me, Mr. Thoreau. Have you ever dealt with a vampyre?” Beers said.
“Of course not. They do not exist.”
“You say that only because you have never seen one,” Beers said.
“Have you?”
Steeling himself, Beers looked back at Bidwell’s body. “I may be seeing one right now.”
Henry turned away from Beers, his tolerance for the constable’s obstinate obtuseness at an end. He examined the wide loading doors, barred from the inside by a ten-foot-long plank resting on iron brackets. “How else might an intruder get in the ice house?” he asked Jackson.
The sawyer shrugged. “One way or another, I suppose. I ain’t too concerned about securing the place. These blocks of ice have been setting in here since last winter, and I never lost a wink of sleep worrying about them. They each weigh a hundred-fifty pounds and are not so easy to steal.”
“Then why did you lock the side door?” Henry said.
“I always lock it when I got a body stored in here for burial. Seems the proper thing to do.”
Henry looked up at three windows close under the eaves. “Too small and too high for entry,” he concluded.
“Not for a bat,” Beers said.
Ignoring his remark, Henry left us to walk around the spacious interior, examining the wall boards.
“You’ll find no openings between the boards,” Jackson called to him in the frosty air. “I make sure to keep this building tight and well insulated to hold in the cold. At a penny a pound, I do not want my inventory to melt away on me.”
Henry pointed up at a pair of unbarred bay doors cut into the upper part of a wall. “Where is the ladder to reach those doors, Mr. Jackson?”
“There is none,” Jackson said. “Only that chute.” He gestured toward a long wooden trough that lay on the floor close to the wall.
“Was the chute set up last night?” Henry said.
“No, it’s been there since we used it last winter. We slide blocks of ice down it after they’ve been lifted up the outside chute to those doors. When the blocks start to pile up we take the inside chute down because it takes up space we need for storage.”
“Do you keep that outside chute in position all year?”
“No reason to take that one down.”
“So a man could climb up it and push open those doors from the outside to get in here,” Henry said.
“Jumping down from up there would most likely result in a broken limb,” I said.
“The taller the man, the less risk,” Henry said. “I estimate the height from floor to door to be twenty feet. A man six-feet tall could first hang from the door ledge by his hands, giving him an additional two feet of arm length, and then he would only have to drop down twelve feet or so.”
“But then how would he leave?” I said. “All the exit doors on this level remain locked or bolted.”
“He would leave the same way he came in, of course,” Henry said.
“It is one thing to drop down from an entry twenty feet up,” I said. “And quite another to go back up to it without a ladder.”
“Vampyres employ magic to overcome gravity,” Beers said.
“And men employ more practical means,” Henry said. “Note the smears of mud ascending the wall. Those are boot marks, I wager. The perpetrator hauled himself up with a rope.” Henry carefully examined the floor beneath the bay doors. “Yet for all his athletic maneuvers he did not spill a drop of blood. What sort of vessel did he bring it in, I wonder.”
“A corked jar?” I suggested.
“More a risk of breaking that than his own leg,” Henry said. “Let us take a look outside.”
We all went out and around the building to the mill pond side to regard the narrow chute that slanted up from the water’s edge to the bay doors. We were unfortunately joined by the cooper and the mechanic, who had been lingering outside in wait of us.
“When this pond freezes over I employ a crew of fifty men to cut blocks of ice out of it and then haul ’em up the chute,” Jackson boasted.
“Fifty men!” Mudge sounded impressed. “There must be good money to be made in ice.”
“More now than ever,” Jackson said, “what with the railroad to transport it to Boston so quick. From there some of my ice gets carried by ship all the way to India. I’ve been told the English who rule there want it to cool their whiskey.”
“You don’t say?” Mudge regarded Jackson with new respect. “And you own the saw mill too?”
“I do. Get wood for the caskets and sawdust for ice insulation from my mill.”
“You sure got it all figured out, Mr. Jackson,” Mudge said. “Do you have sons to carry on after you?”
“Only one. Hyram is a hard worker, and he will take over the saw mill and ice business just fine. He sure ain’t got what it takes to be an undertaker, though.”
Mudge sighed. “Not many do, my friend.”
“And to think what little respect we get for it.” Jackson sighed too. “Anyways, that corpse in the ice house scared the bejesus out of my son when first he saw it.”
“Such an awful neck wound is not easy to behold,” Mudge said. “Thoreau told me about it on the way here so I was at least prepared.”
“A singular character, that Thoreau feller,” Jackson said. “Full of energy and purpose, he is. He knows what he’s about.”
“Or thinks he does,” Beers said.
We all looked toward Henry, who was climbing up the outside chute. When he got up to the top he examined the bay doors most thoroughly, then scrambled back down, nimble as a quadruped. He handed Beers some bi
ts of rope.
“I collected them by the post up top,” he said. “What does that tell you, constable?”
Beers took on the attitude of a recalcitrant schoolboy. “Not much.”
“Well, it tells me that our perpetrator tied a length of rope around the post, and used it to go down to the ice house floor and come up again,” Henry said. “His malicious hoax done, he cut off the rope with a knife rather than take the time to untie it.”
“All that deducing from a few shreds of hemp?” Beers rolled his eyes at his drinking cronies who were hovering in the background.
If Henry noticed he gave no sign of it. “Let us search the area for further evidence, Mr. Beers,” he said.
Beers reluctantly followed in his wake like a sluggish whale as Henry thrashed about in the bushes along the pond edge. “Aha! I have found the vessel that held the blood, constable,” he said, lifting up a headless rat by the tail.
Beers shrank back in disgust. “It looks to me that you have found a very dead rodent.”
“One and the same. I know now why no blood was spilt,” Henry said. “The rat was brought into the ice house alive, and its head was cut off over the corpse. The flow of blood that resulted filled the corpse’s mouth. The perpetrator then pocketed the rat and its severed head, climbed up the rope, went through the doors and down the outside chute. Before going on his way he threw the rat’s body where I found it, along with its head.”
“But you did not find the head,” Beers said, as if this discounted Henry’s logical hypothesis.
“I am sure some animal has consumed it by now,” Henry said.
Beers gave a noncommittal grunt and started walking off in the direction of his cronies. I waylaid him and asked if we might have a private moment. He reluctantly agreed, and we wandered out of earshot of the others.
“There should be no doubt about it in your mind, Constable Beers,” I said in a low voice. “A mortal man is responsible for defacing Bidwell’s corpse. Henry has proven that conclusively. And a mortal man slayed Bidwell, as I proved conclusively during my inquest testimony yesterday.”
“Did you now? Well, I reckon you think yourself smarter than the rest of us since you got that medical degree, Adam Walker. But I remember you when you were no higher than my belt buckle and didn’t know your left shoe from your right.”
I could not help but smile for he was correct on that score. “The only point I am trying to make,” I said, “is that a vampyre had nothing to do with any of this.”
“I have heard as much evidence that one did as didn’t,” Beers insisted.
“From whom? Solomon Wiley?”
“He is far more familiar with the ways of vampyres than you.”
“He is an ignorant fabricator with motives of his own, Mr. Beers. Think upon this. Wiley fits the description of the perpetrator that Henry hypothesized. He is tall, for one thing. And he would benefit if vampyre fear spread through Plumford. Tell no one about the condition in which we found poor Bidwell’s body. That is just what Wiley wants!”
“I will do what I see fit,” Beers pronounced. Raising his double chins in irate dignity, he waddled off. As he lumbered up the hill toward the Green, he was joined by the cooper and the mechanic. My guess is they were headed back to the Sun Tavern, where Beers would offer up this latest report of the Plumford Night Stalker in exchange for a free drink or two.
The two undertakers, Henry, and I returned to the ice house. The big bottom doors were swung open, and Henry helped Mudge bring in the casket. Before the body was lowered into it Mudge assured Henry that he would make it look presentable for the Bidwell ladies. We all four of us carried the casket outside and slid it onto the back of the hearse wagon, and off Henry and Mudge went to Concord.
“Glad to see the last of that troublesome corpse,” Jackson said.
I confess that I was too. We parted and went about our business.
JULIA’S NOTEBOOK
Monday, 6 December
When I came down to breakfast this morning I found a basket of warm muffins on the kitchen table. I thanked Mrs. Swann for rising so early to bake them, but she insisted that it was no trouble at all on her part.
“Has Noah breakfasted yet?” I asked her.
“I have not seen hide nor hair of him,” she replied. “My guess is that the lazy boy has not gotten himself out of bed yet.”
“Oh, but he has,” I said. “I heard him rustle about his room at the crack of dawn and then tramp downstairs.”
“Well, who knows where he ran off to then.”
“The schoolhouse, I trust.”
“Most doubtful,” Mrs. Swann said. “That boy cares nothing for learning.”
“What he does not care for is being taunted by other children,” I conjectured. “I propose we tutor him at home, Mrs. Swann.”
“What a waste of our good time that would be! Surely you have observed how slow-witted the boy is.”
“Slow of speech but not wits,” I countered. “Noah’s eyes shine with intelligence whenever he looks at me. Which is rarely, I admit. He is very shy, and who can blame him? We are strangers to him still, and most strangers, I suspect, have not treated him well. We have to win his trust, Mrs. Swann. And in order to do that, we must make sure to be affectionate.”
“Indeed!” she agreed and kissed me heartily on the cheek.
I laughed in surprise. “Affectionate toward the boy is what I meant.”
“It is in my nature to be affectionate toward everyone,” she said.
I was most happy to hear it. Between Mrs. Swann and me Noah will be sure to receive the loving-kindness he deserves and must sorely miss since his parents’ passing.
Having nothing to wear but the clothes I’d fled France in, I went up to the attic after breakfast and searched through chests and trunks for possible attire. What a treasure I discovered: a handsome hooded cape of brown wool that belonged to my grandmother. It is sure to keep me warm all winter. Alas, all the other clothes I found were too outmoded to wear in public unless I aspired to be the town laughingstock. That would not have troubled me the least in the past, but now I must be taken seriously as an artist if I hope to make a living by it.
So off I went to Daggett’s store to purchase some yard goods with my limited funds. Mrs. Daggett informed me that the town tailor, Micah Lyttle, had recently wed a most capable mantua maker, and I took my bolts of cloth to his shop right next door. His wife was eager to take me on as a customer, assuring me she would sew up what I needed right away. Her name is Kitty, and an apt one it is for she is as adorable as a kitten, with soft ginger hair and a tiny pink nose. She and Micah seem a most compatible pair, both small and lean and nimble-fingered, with bright eyes and eager smiles. Happy, happy. The shop is also their home, sparsely furnished but airy and bright, with plump patchwork cushions all about and colorful, unmatched curtains on the windows, obviously stitched up from left-over fabric snippets. I found the effect of the many hues and textures charming. When I complimented Kitty on her artistic flair I was not surprised to learn she had sewn costumes for the stage before her marriage, first in London and then in Boston. I commissioned her to make me two simple gowns of wool challis, a painting apron of cotton duck, and three muslin blouses. (Would have preferred silk, but budget does not allow for it.) She took me into the bedchamber to measure me in privacy, leaving Micah to his work in the parlor. I could hear him whistling a jolly tune as he cut out a garment, and the caged canary in the bedchamber chirped away as if to accompany him.
“What a cheerful work environment you have,” I remarked.
“Oh, yes, Micah and I are very happy here!” Kitty said and then looked slightly abashed. “I do not mean to boast of our happiness when so many have suffered during this horrible Consumption epidemic. We pray every evening that it shall soon pass.”
“And the fear of vampyres with it,” I said. “Have you ever heard such superstition?”
“Indeed I have,” Kitty said. “In the English village I com
e from, stories concerning the walking dead have been passed down since medieval times. They are referred to as revenants, however, not vampyres. When a revenant returns from the dead to feed on family and neighbors, the only way to stop it is to cut out its heart.”
I sighed. “Always the heart.”
“Well, that is where the spirit resides, is it not?” Kitty said.
“Surely you do not give credence to these stories of revenants or vampyres or whatever you want to call them, Kitty.”
“No. But I do believe the very essence of our humanity is centered here.” She placed her little hand over her own heart.
I smiled back at her. “As I do.”
Witnessing the happiness Mr. and Mrs. Lyttle shared had lifted my spirits, and I hummed the tune Micah had been whistling as I made my way home. My spirits rose even higher when I found Adam seated at the kitchen table playing checkers with Noah.
“He is trouncing me!” Adam said, and Noah laughed with glee. His speech may be garbled, but his laugh is as clear as a silver bell.
I refrained from asking Noah why he was not attending school. We shall sort that out later. Meanwhile, his time could not be better spent than in Adam’s company. I had never seen Noah look so happy. Yet when Adam made mention that he would be going to Concord this afternoon to pick up medical supplies at the train depot and invited Noah to ride there with him, the boy refused.
“Have you something better to do?” Adam said.
Noah shook his head.
“Do you dislike Napoleon?” Adam said.
Noah shook his head again.
“Ah, then it is my company you find objectionable,” Adam teased.
Noah shook his head most vehemently, close to tears that Adam would think so.
“The boy is shy,” I said. “He does not care to have strangers stare at him.”
Noah nodded.
“But I will safeguard you,” Adam assured him. “No one at the station will make you feel uncomfortable in any way.”
Noah gave him a disbelieving look.
“The more you get out, the more used to people you will become,” Adam said.