Thoreau on Wolf Hill

by Oak, B. B.

  “No!” Noah cried most emphatically and ran out of the room.

  “I did not mean to upset him so,” Adam told me. He looked almost as stricken as Noah. “I was trying to be kind.”

  “You are kind,” I assured him (even though he had not been so to me of late).

  “I have yet to learn how best to treat the boy,” he said.

  “If Noah does not wish to go out in public, I suppose you should leave him be.”

  “Leave him to go through life as a hermit?”

  “Perhaps that is the only way he feels he can survive.”

  Adam got up from the table with a most determined look upon his visage. “If I can find a way to correct his deformity, I will.”

  “I have been hoping you might help him.”

  “I can promise nothing, Julia.” With that, he started to head for his office.

  “Would you mind taking me along to Concord instead of Noah?” I called after him. He turned to me, and the look on his face told me he minded very much. I did not let that dissuade me. “I would like to return a shawl Mrs. Emerson kindly lent me and perhaps have a short visit with her.”

  “Very well. Let us set off at two,” he replied.

  It is now eleven. I am counting the minutes. I own that I look forward to the short ride alone with him far more than I should.

  ADAM’S JOURNAL

  Monday, December 6

  Drove to Concord this afternoon with Julia. She wanted to visit Lidian Emerson, and I could hardly refuse her request for a ride. Henry was standing in front of the Emerson house when we arrived, fixing the sagging fence gate. He was wearing a black armband on his jacket, and I guessed he had attended Chauncey Bidwell’s burial earlier. Before I could inquire about it, Mr. Mudge pulled up in his empty hearse wagon.

  “More trouble concerning the Bidwell body,” he proclaimed without preamble.

  “What happened?” Henry said. “When I left the cemetery less than an hour ago, I thought both his body and any trouble concerning it had been put to rest.”

  “So I thought too,” Mudge said. “But after the mourners left and the gravediggers finished filling in the grave, a stranger approached the Bidwell ladies and me as we were arranging wreaths upon the mound. He asserted most severely that Chauncey’s body would never be at rest unless certain measures were taken.”

  “Solomon Wiley,” Henry said.

  “That’s who he said he was, all right. He told Mrs. Bidwell that her son had been killed by a vampyre and would become one himself unless his body were dug up and decapitated. He offered to perform this grisly ritual for a hundred dollars, a cheap enough price to pay, as he put it, to save her son’s soul. In response to this outrageous claim, one of the daughters took up a shovel left behind by a gravedigger and struck Wiley upon the chest with it. He did not so much as blink. He merely repeated his offer, adding that if Mrs. Bidwell did not accept it she would forever regret it. So would all the townspeople her vampyre son attacked, he added. Leaving us with that dire warning, he marched out of the cemetery. I drove the poor, distraught ladies home and could think of nothing more I could do but come tell you, Henry. My duties as an undertaker ended when young Bidwell was buried. You can take up the matter from here if you are so inclined to. I am not.” And with that Mr. Mudge drove away.

  Henry turned to me. “Will you accompany me to the Bidwell home, Adam? As the medical examiner who officially pronounced Chauncey dead, your presence will do much to reassure the ladies.”

  Leaving Julia to visit with Mrs. Emerson, off we went to the Bidwells’ house in the hub of Concord. A gaunt young woman opened the door to us. Her sad, red-rimmed eyes brightened considerably at the sight of Henry.

  “Mr. Mudge told us what just happened at the cemetery, Varina,” he said. “We have come to be of help.” He introduced me, and when I took her hand I noted how ice-cold and bone-thin it was.

  Varina ushered us into the chilly parlor, where another youngish woman sat by the empty hearth doing some sort of handiwork. An elderly woman reclined on the sofa and with great effort sat up to greet us. Henry introduced me to Mrs. Bidwell and her other daughter, Zenobia. Their hands, too, when I took them, felt cold and skeletal.

  “Pray be seated,” Mrs. Bidwell said and motioned us toward two straight-backed chairs across from her. “Varina dear, pray go prepare a nice pot of tea for our guests.”

  “We have no tea, Mother.”

  Mrs. Bidwell acted surprised to hear it. “Why, we must have just run out of it!”

  “Don’t drink tea anyway,” Henry said.

  No other refreshments were offered, nor was it suggested that a fire be lit. Varina took a chair beside her sister’s and picked up handiwork of her own. They were both some years past the customary age to wed and not nearly as comely as their dead brother had been handsome. Of course, tears and grief do not put a lady’s face at its best. And I am sure their heavy black mourning gowns made them look even paler and plainer than they were. I observed that the handcraft they were both doing was not how ladies usually kept their dainty hands busy. In fact, plaiting strips of imported palm leaf into hats was work farm girls did to earn money. Harriet had taken it up for a time, but Gran did not like to see her doing such piece work. She thought it akin to factory work and beneath her ward’s station. Harriet herself concluded that the meager payment of twenty cents a hat was not worth her effort. Apparently the Bidwell sisters were not of the same opinion. During the conversation that ensued they never stopped plaiting, and I detected abrasions upon their forefingers and thumbs from the narrow lengths of stiff, split leaves.

  “Henry and Dr. Walker have heard about the horrible man who accosted us at Chauncey’s grave, Mother,” Varina said.

  “We know him,” I said. “Solomon Wiley has caused much distress in Plumford with his wild talk of vampyres.”

  “Do people there believe such talk?” Mrs. Bidwell said.

  “My town is in the midst of a Consumption epidemic that has brought forth notions that would be considered insane during normal times,” I said. “Vampyres are being blamed for many recent deaths.”

  Mrs. Bidwell clutched her hands to her breast. “Including our dear Chauncey’s death?”

  “At the inquest I declared him to have been murdered by mortal hands,” I replied, not answering her directly. “And that was the verdict of the Coroner’s Jury.”

  “Yet some still allege he was murdered by a vampyre?” Mrs. Bidwell persisted.

  “Solomon Wiley instigated that rumor,” Henry said. “And now he is trying to extort money from you to put an end to it.”

  “Even if I had a hundred dollars I would not pay that vile man to disinter and defile our dear Chauncey!” she said.

  “What if he does so anyway out of spite?” Varina said. “He might get enough people to believe his wild story. Vampyre fear is spreading throughout the region.”

  “Nothing is so much to be feared as fear,” Henry said. “And the only way to combat fear is with the truth. When Chauncey’s real murderer is discovered, it will put an end to this obscene rumor. Time is of the essence, and Dr. Walker and I shall begin an investigation immediately.”

  That was news to me, and I gave Henry an astonished look.

  Mrs. Bidwell gave him one filled with gratitude. “My husband always claimed that you were a man to be counted upon, Henry.” She turned to her daughters. “Remember how your father would oft advise our Chauncey to be self-reliant like Henry Thoreau?”

  “Indeed!” Zenobia said. “And Chauncey would laugh and say he did not fancy living like an impoverished monk in a cabin no bigger than a hat.”

  “Really, Zenobia. Such banter is not worth repeating,” Varina reprimanded.

  Her sister bowed her head. “I meant no offence to you, Henry.”

  “I took none,” he said. “As I recall, Chauncey made sport of everything and everyone.”

  “It was part of his charm,” Mrs. Bidwell said. “He could never have lived alone as yo
u did on Walden Pond, Henry. He was far too fond of society.”

  “And luxury,” Varina added a bit wryly.

  “It was our pleasure to provide him with whatever little indulgences we could afford,” Mrs. Bidwell said. “He was our joy, our pride, and the light of our lives.”

  “I recall Mr. Bidwell’s telling me that he hoped his only son would take over his business one day,” Henry said.

  Mrs. Bidwell sighed. “Chauncey had no inclination to learn the craft of gunsmithing from his father. He felt he was destined for a profession rather than a trade.”

  “My brother had too fine a mind to spend his time working with his hands,” Zenobia said, her own hands never ceasing the work of braiding palm leaves.

  “He aspired to be a lawyer,” Varina said. “He was apprenticing at the Boston law firm of Curtis, Hayden, and Lardner and, according to Chauncey, all three partners thought he had a brilliant legal mind.”

  “We need not tell Mr. Thoreau how brilliant our Chauncey was,” Mrs. Bidwell said. “He knows from having taught him as a boy.”

  “He must have been your favorite student,” Zenobia said to Henry. She did not seem to notice his lack of a response and went on talking. “Oh, what a lovely boy he was! All those golden curls.”

  “And what a handsome young man he became,” her sister said. “Young ladies found him irresistible.”

  “Did he have a special sweetheart?” I asked.

  “No girl could be special enough for our Chauncey,” Zenobia said.

  “Our hope was that he would marry well,” Mrs. Bidwell said. “Chauncey hoped so too. When he attended balls and tea drinkings and such in Boston, he made sure to put forth his best appearance.”

  “He had such beautiful shirts and frock coats!” Zenobia said, unconsciously touching a roughened fingertip to the frayed collar of her dress. “Only the best tailors in Boston would do for Chauncey.”

  “Was he in debt?” Henry said.

  “Well, what young man just starting out isn’t?” Mrs. Bidwell said. “We did our best to help him out.”

  “Help him out of trouble, you mean?”

  “No! My son was not the sort to get into trouble. He did not drink spirits or gamble or indulge in any bad habits, but living in the city is expensive, especially if one aspires to associate with those in the higher echelons, which Chauncey did.”

  “It wasn’t that he was a snob,” Zenobia quickly added. “He was just ambitious.”

  “Ambitious young men sometimes have enemies,” I said.

  “Not Chauncey!” Mrs. Bidwell said. “To know him was to love him.”

  “Yet somebody murdered him,” Henry said.

  “It must have been a stranger,” Mrs. Bidwell insisted. “A cutthroat thief who waylaid him on that dark path.” Tears began to flow down her haggard cheeks. “What was he doing there, I wonder?”

  “I was hoping you could tell us,” Henry said. “Whom did Chauncey know in Plumford?”

  “Wasn’t there a girl from there he rather liked?” Varina asked Zenobia.

  “From Plumford? No, I thought the one he met at the Grange dance last summer resided in Bedford. Or was it Maynard? Well, wherever it was, he lost interest in her months ago. Leastways, he never mentioned her to us again.”

  “He thought he had all the time in the world to find a mate and settle down,” Varina said and started weeping along with her mother. As did her sister.

  I am used to seeing women weep. What doctor is not? But Henry could not bear it. He stood up abruptly, and I thought he was making ready to leave, but instead he asked Mrs. Bidwell if we might examine Chauncey’s room, in hopes of finding some clews that would further our investigation. She assented and directed us upstairs to the first room on the left.

  Its contents were unremarkable but for the splendor of the dead man’s clothes and shoes, which the sisters had alluded to. Henry took no interest in them and directed his attention to several legal texts on the desk. The pages had not yet been cut, much less the spines cracked. We continued to search about, looking for nothing in particular. And finding nothing of particular interest, either, until Henry discovered a large-bored fowling piece deep in a closet.

  “Crafted by his father,” he said, examining the stock. “Why would Chauncey want to hide it?” He raised the gun to his shoulder. “Something is amiss here. The balance is too far forward.”

  He lowered the gun, peered down into the barrels, then turned the muzzle downward and tapped it on the floor. A red silk purse fell out of one of the barrels. Henry untied it and upended it over the desk. Ten pea-sized dark brown balls slid out.

  “Amber beads?” Henry guessed.

  “I think not,” I said, picking up a ball and rolling the small, malleable mass betwixt my forefinger and thumb. I gave it a sniff. “I believe this to be opium. We were shown the drug in all forms at medical school. I doubt any legitimate apothecary would sell opium in such a concentrated form as this, however. These pills were not produced for medicinal purposes but to be smoked in a pipe for recreation. The habit is highly addictive.”

  Henry carefully returned the pills to the silk purse and tucked the purse into his jacket pocket. He saw my frown and smiled. “You think me a thief and drug smuggler, Adam? Well, so I am. I must remove this opium to prevent Mrs. Bidwell from chancing upon it. Did she not just tell us that her beloved son had no bad habits? Why disabuse the poor lady of that belief?”

  “Those pills may be worth a goodly sum,” I said.

  “Then I reckon we should try to sell them and give the money we receive for them to Mrs. Bidwell. Looks to me she could use it. With the loss of her husband’s income, the dear lady seems very hard up indeed. The parlor has not a decoration or bauble in sight, and I know how fond ladies are of such things, so I wager she has been selling off whatever she can to make ends meet. Worse yet, a glance out the window showed me that the woodshed is already empty, and it is but the first week of December.”

  “Yet Chauncey had money enough to purchase opium for himself,” I said.

  “For himself? Or was he peddling it to others at a profit?” Henry said. “That could be why he was murdered. We must find out more about his life in Boston.”

  We returned to the parlor, and Varina composed herself to see us out. As she led us down the hall I glanced into an adjoining room, where I saw piles of split palm leaves and high stacks of completed woven hats. It was small wonder the fingers of the two sisters were so raw. They were literally working them to the bone.

  Before we departed Henry asked Varina if the two keys, the ivory comb, and the wallet that he had found upon Chauncey’s person had been returned to them. She assured him that they had.

  “Is either of the keys to your house?” he asked her.

  “No. We assumed the larger key was to the front door of the house where he boarded in Boston, and the smaller one was to his room.”

  “May I have them?” Henry said. “It may prove useful to inspect his living quarters there.”

  Varina went back inside to fetch the keys and gave them to Henry, along with Chauncey’s boardinghouse address on Oxford Street.

  “One last question, if you please, Varina,” Henry said. “Who was it whacked Solomon Wiley with a shovel at the cemetery?”

  “It was I!” she declared, chin up, shoulders back. “And I have no regrets about it.”

  “Nor should you,” Henry said and gave her a brief but hearty hug in parting.

  Drove back to the Emerson house, gulped down a glass of Mrs. Emerson’s god-awful beer, departed with Julia, and stopped at the station to pick up my delivery of medications. By then it was late afternoon.

  “Will we make it home before sunset?” Julia said, gazing up at the darkening sky as we trotted toward Plumford.

  “Are you such a silly goose as to fear coming upon the Plumford Night Stalker?” I teased.

  She turned to me, and her lovely oval face, so pale beneath the hood of her dark cape, seemed to be floatin
g in space like a vision from my dreams. But the poke in the arm she gave me proved she was real enough. “Silly goose indeed! Was I not your fearless chum when we were children?”

  “Fearless enough, I suppose, for a female.”

  “For a female?” She poked me again. “My sex did not limit my bravery. And you regarded me as your equal in those days.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish we had never met again as adults, Adam. We would most likely both be much happier now.”

  “No, Julia. We would be much happier now if you hadn’t left me,” I could not help but point out.

  “How can you say that? Think of the consequences, cousin.”

  I was sorely tempted to tell her the truth then. But what good would it have done either of us? So I said no more, and the soft clop of Napoleon’s hooves filled the silence until the piercing sound of children screaming pricked our ears.

  “That does not sound like children at play,” Julia said.

  Agreeing, I nudged Napoleon to go faster toward the Gray farm just ahead. We pulled into the farmyard to find the three shrieking Gray children grouped around their wailing mother, who was kneeling by their supine father. Grabbed my bag, leapt out of the gig, and ran to them. Saw immediately that Mr. Gray had sunk his broad ax into his thigh. He was bleeding so profusely that I feared the blade had struck through the femoral artery. Thank God this was not the case or he would have died from exsanguination in a matter of moments. He was lying beside the log he had nigh squared up. He must have struck a knot or lost control just enough for the ax to glance up and penetrate his thigh. The strapping young fellow was hardly conscious. His pant leg was soaked through with blood from cuff to crotch.

  I threw off my frock coat and vest, took off my belt, and wrapped it about the leg above the wound. “Keep a taut hold on it whilst I draw out the ax blade,” I told Mrs. Gray, and in that moment her eyes rolled back and she fainted. “Julia!” I called out, not realizing she was already right there, having run after me. She knelt down and took hold of the belt.

  I pulled the broad ax blade out of Gray’s thigh, using a great deal of force but as much care as I could. It came out slick and clean, but was accompanied by a rush of blood. I yanked off my shirt and pressed it against the wound to staunch the flow. Julia stepped out of her petticoat and commenced tearing it into strips. We wrapped them tightly around my shirt to keep it in place over the injury.