The Last Hanging: A Will Haviland-Abigail Carhart Mystery

by M. G. Meaney

  "Good morning, John," Abigail greeted him. "How are you today?"

  "Just fine, Mrs. Carhart. Now, Bolter, what did you do?" The boy, 11 or 12 at most, wore brown pants, white shirt, dark brown suspenders and, inexplicably, a navy blue cap. He set about replacing the bucket and refilling Bolter's feeding trough, stroking the horse and speaking soothingly to her like a mother wiping up a child's spill.

  "How long have you been tending Bolter, John?" Abigail asked.

  "Almost a year now, Mrs. Carhart, Ma'am, and I keep an eye on Burnside too. I'm going to have a horse like Burnside one day." He said this while bent over the trough.

  "Are you? That's wonderful. And what will you name your horse?"

  "Sheridan, after the general everyone talks about in the war. We studied about him in school, Ma'am, when I went to school."

  "How nice. And where would you ride him?"

  "Oh, all over, I suppose, like Mr. Merritt does, maybe to Bedford or Peekskill, even. It wouldn't bother Sheridan."

  "Even if it were snowing?"

  "Oh, snow would be nothing to a horse like that, I'm sure it wouldn't." He was looking up at Abigail now, enjoying this discussion of his dream. His dull gray eyes had brightened a little and the weariness on his oil-smeared face lifted, though it was still long and pallid.

  "Were you taking care of Bolter and Burnside when we had the big snow, back in February?" Abigail inquired tentatively, avoiding mention of the peddler.

  "The day they killed the peddler?" John clarified bluntly. "Yes, Ma'am, same as every day."

  "When did you see the horses that day?"

  John finished hooking up the bucket. "Funny, she doesn't seem thirsty," he remarked. He shrugged and turned around to Abigail and Haviland.

  "The big snow day I put out their feed in the morning like always, except no water on account of it being freezing. Both Mr. Acker and Mr. Merritt drove sleighs that morning, so me and Georgie Anderson, we unhitched the sleighs and pulled them back a little, onto where the grass is there, toward the river. Then, around 11, we were called out to hitch up Mr. Acker's sleigh again, on account of he was going home for lunch, like usual."

  "What about in the afternoon?" Abigail asked, she hoped calmly.

  "About 2:30 I brought out some water for them. I warmed it up by setting the buckets on top of the forge. They get pretty hot and I ought to know. I burned my thumb one day and it hasn't felt right since."

  Abigail and Haviland looked on, expectantly.

  "So, anyway, I took the buckets out. That's when I usually check the feed and water anyway, even on warm days. And Burnside was snorting and wheezing something awful. I thought he was about to keel over with the cold, or thirst or something. I was feeling really bad that I took so long to get him the water. So, I was patting him and rubbing him the way you do to calm them down, and he wasn't cold at all, not a bit. He was hot, sweating even, and it being as cold as it was."

  "Why was that?" Abigail inquired.

  "He'd been ridden like crazy's my guess. Mr. Merritt must have had somewhere to get in a hurry and got there and back, even with the snow piling up like it was. He really put the horse out, though. Burnside was catchin' at the air, trying to gulp it in."

  "How do you know it was Mr. Merritt who had been riding Burnside?" Haviland asked.

  "Who else would it be?" John asked. "He's his horse." Then, a befuddled look turned into a conspiratorial smile.

  "Say, do you think somebody stole Burnside to go and kill the peddler? Is that what this is all about, Ma'am, Reverend? Burnside involved in the murder. Gee, that's something. No wonder everybody says you know everything, Mrs. Carhart."

  "They say I know everything?" Abigail followed up, detoured by this gossip. "Who says so?"

  "The ladies in the factory. Or, was it that you think you know everything? I think that was it, but I'm not real sure. Everybody talks so much at lunch, since Mr. Acker docks you for talking in the factory, and probably right he is, or there'd never be any work done."

  "Did you mention Burnside's condition to Mr. Merritt that day?" Haviland interposed, to return the conversation to the subject.

  "His condition? Oh, you mean him sweating and snorting and that? Sure, I did. When Georgie and me were hitching up the sleigh at the end of the day, he came by, and I told him I hoped he would take it easier on Burnside going home."

  "What was his response?"

  John looked befuddled again. He looked to Abigail for help.

  "What did he tell you?" she translated.

  "Oh, that. You know, he was confused, kind of, like he didn't know what I was talking about. So, I mentioned the hard ride Burnside had that day, and he looked at me like I had three heads. What ride?' he says, gruff like, then he got in, grabbed the reins and trotted off."

  "What about Bolter?" Haviland asked. "Had she been trotting around during the afternoon?"

  "Not that I saw. She had some snow on her, but it must have been blown in by the wind, because her coat was cool, not sweaty like Burnside's."

  "How long does it take Burnside to cool off from a hard ride, would you say, John?"

  "Oh, I don't know, 20 minutes or a half-hour."

  "Did you mention any of this to Mr. Acker that day?"

  "No, I don't think so. I didn't even see him, except just before I came out with the buckets. He came into the factory for a couple of minutes and chided Georgie for being lazy, even though Georgie had just dropped a crowbar on his foot by accident. Mr. Acker wasn't outside when we hitched up Mr. Merritt's sleigh, and he didn't have one himself that afternoon. He's a pretty good rider to go through that snow on horseback, I'd say."

  He glanced nervously toward Acker's office door. "I guess I'd better get back, else I'll be docked for loafing."

  Abigail put her arm around his shoulder. "If Mr. Acker docks you, come and see me. I'll make it up to you."

  He scampered off around back, shouting as he left, "Good luck with the murder."

  * * *

  "We'll just take another minute of your time, Mr. Merritt," Haviland announced as they barged back into his shop. They would have been tossed out, except that the harness maker was doing his rudimentary best to be civil and charming to Emily Grandison, whose family owned Grandison and Moshier Foundry, the second largest business in Paulding. Merritt calmly excused himself and stalked over to the corner where Haviland and Abigail had stationed themselves, adopting a casual air.

  "What are you doing back here? Get out now or I'll not answer for my ..."

  "Why was Burnside exhausted and sweating at 2:30 that day? Had you been riding him? We know you weren't here," Abigail demanded.

  "What are you talking about?" he growled in a loud whisper, his back to Mrs. Grandison. "I was here the whole day. Now, get out."

  "Johnny Peck told us he found Burnside hot from a hard ride at 2:30, not long after the peddler was killed, probably by someone taking the woods from here to there and back. It was you, wasn't it, Sam?" Abigail said, hoping to seize the glory for herself, though still doubting that Sam could have done such a thing.

  Merritt's sole desire was to remove the annoying inquisitors from his shop so he could entice Mrs. Grandison into replacing the harnesses and fixtures on her five carriages.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Now, leave me alone," Merritt pleaded, his voice cracking in desperate exacerbation. He whisked them frantically toward the door, turning a crooked smile on Mrs. Grandison every now and then.

  "Why did you kill him, Sam?" Abigail whispered.

  "I didn't. Stop saying it. I didn't." Merritt verged on panic.

  "You weren't here. Burnside wasn't here. Where were you?"

  "I was here," he spat out. Then, he raised his arms slowly, like a balloon filling up toward bursting. "Oh, damn it all. I was with ..." But he stopped abruptly. "I was here," he stated quietly after apparently reconsidering his admission. They were at the door now. "Thank you very much, Abi
gail, Reverend. I'll see what I can do," he said heartily for Mrs. Grandison's benefit. He prodded the couple through the door and slammed it.

  "So, my dear Mr. Merritt, is it true what I've heard about town?" Mrs. Grandison inquired. "Was it you who killed the peddler?"

  * * *

  "We know Burnside was missing at the time of the murder, Mr. Acker. What do you know about it?" Haviland demanded as he and Abigail sat in Acker's office after exchanging pleasantries bruskly.

  Acker's right eyebrow edged up in curiosity. He tilted his head slightly toward his guests. Haviland could not surmise, however, if he was surprised by the information itself or by his and Abigail's knowing it.

  "Why, Reverend, are we still chasing about after phantom killers even this near your departure from us? Surely, the two of you could be putting these precious hours to a more pleasant use?

  Haviland would not be deterred. "Only you and Sam Merritt would have known the horses were there. He says he was working in his shop at the time."

  "But not everyone agrees with him," Acker inserted.

  Haviland ignored him, but noted that he had kept abreast of the gossip about the case. "You were the only one with total access to the horses without risk of being seen by anyone else. Your secretary said she saw no one pass the door during that time."

  "And Sam — or anyone else on Main Street — about to steal a horse to ride off to kill the peddler would certainly have notified Mrs. Hains of his intentions rather than, say, creep beneath the door or go around the back way," Acker suggested glibly.

  "Anyone else, including Sam, would have taken a chance that you would have seen him," Haviland pointed out.

  "It is well-known that I spend much of the day in my shop," Acker said. "And it was snowing." He stood behind his desk and paced. "But Reverend, and Abigail, this is all very interesting to you, I am sure, but even if you were to put me on Burnside — rather than on my own Bolter, oddly — riding off to cut down this peddler in the midst of a snowstorm, your amateurish sleuthing leaves you no motive for me, or for Sam Merritt. I spoke to the man for the first time that day. I did not even learn his name until The Gazette carried it the following day. What reason would I have to kill him?" He stopped and stared down at them. They met his gaze, then lowered their eyes. They had no motive whatsoever.

  Acker let the point sink in. Then he moved to the front of the desk and sat on it, bent over, and, adopting a fatherly manner, he said: "Now, I hope you feel as I do that you have slandered enough of Paulding's good citizens with your inquisition. Surely, you would not like to have someone you have known for 15 years arrive on your doorstep to suggest —not charge, mind you, with evidence and witnesses, but merely to suggest — that you might be a murderer? And to suggest that the chap next door might be one too, at least if I am not, and that perhaps if we are innocent then the young fellow down the road a ways must have done it, though we cannot say how or why. I think you will agree that this has been very much your course of action and that we would all be better off if you put an end to it. A village must be calm and cheerful to prosper, just as a business must. I beg you. Let us be calm again."

  Haviland and Abigail, heads down, faces reddened, felt like scolded children. They wanted to rebut his arguments, but they could not. It was true that they had not nearly enough evidence to bring against anyone, even after all this time. They had enough for theories, but in the eyes of the law it amounted to nothing. Still, why was Sam Merritt so obviously lying? And why had no one seen Acker during the time the murder was committed? And someone could have borrowed Merritt's horse. Or gotten to the scene in a completely different way. They had made progress, but short of getting one of them to admit the killing, the chances of accumulating convincing legal evidence were slim.

  Haviland and Abigail got up to leave.

  "I do have one more question," Haviland said on the way to the door. "Why did you not ask where we found out about the missing horse?"

  "Why, little John Peck told you, didn't you say?"

  "No, we didn't," Haviland remarked, and they walked out.

  The rector turned back to find two cold eyes glaring at him.

  * * *

  "What will you do now?" Abigail asked Haviland when they had walked back to the dress shop hand in hand, dispirited by Acker's observations and the ebbing of Haviland's time in the village.

  "I must begin packing. There's no hope of a reprieve, at least not immediately. And there is choir practice. to observe." He smiled wanly. Abigail did not.

  "What about the murder? Surely we're getting closer. Tad knew that horse was missing, and he must have seen us talking with Johnny Peck. You'll not give up so soon?"

  "No," he said, facing her and taking her hands. "I'll not give up so soon."

  Abigail was unsure if he was referring to the murder or to her.

  He released her. "I am going to see the Hopfners. Theodore never said what he was doing there that day. It's time we found out."

  "I must tend to the shop. I've been neglecting it and the orders have been piling up. Then, I'm going to check on that rumor," Abigail said.

  Haviland returned to his wagon, hitched near Merritt's shop, and started his black mare up Westchester Avenue. A quarter-mile up, he nodded to William Thompson, the grocer. Thompson ignored him.

  Then, the fixtures holding the harness to Haviland's wagon abruptly gave way. The wagon slowed. It began edging back down the hill. Preacher continued forward. Haviland, unsure what to do, held the reins. He braced his legs against the front wall of the wagon and pushed himself back in the seat, He was trying to hold horse and carriage together. He ordered Preacher to stop. She did. But the angle of the hill caused the carriage to continue backward. He held on. He strained to keep the wagon and horse together. Meanwhile, Thompson, a half-block back, had heard the yell, noticed his plight and was loping toward him.

  Then the reins gave way. The wagon jolted backward down the avenue toward Main Street. The large wheels creaked and groaned, slowly at first, like a tired old man. But in moments the wagon was scampering down the hill. The trappings for the horse were scraping the baked dirt road. Haviland had been thrown back against the seat when the reins broke. Now, as he recovered himself, it was too late to leap off. He turned, lay prone over the seat and held onto the bottom of the bench back. He could see his progress slicing down the hill faster, ever faster, but was helpless to alter it. He shouted ahead to look out. Two carriages darted toward the sidewalks to avoid him.

  Thompson had intercepted the wagon. He tugged at the side, but the momentum jerked him along with it. He grasped the harness just before the wagon slipped past but ended up setting it on a wobbly course. It veered toward Slater's Meat and Vegetable Market at Main and Westchester, with its displays of fruits and vegetables now dead ahead.

  Haviland clung to the bolting carriage with a death grip, fearing injury, fearing humiliation, fearing harm to others. What else could go wrong? He foresaw the entire village laughing, jeering, as he lay sodden with squashed red tomatoes, mashed yams, pulpy bananas and shredded cabbages, a fitting end to his embarrassingly inept efforts. A hundred feet from the shop now. The wagon was skittering and veering across ruts, vaulting and crashing over bumps. It verged on overturning at any instant, or of shaking itself to pieces beneath him. Then, he spotted Amelia Theall. The silver-haired, gossipy matron was ambling around the corner to inspect some of Slater's offerings. She was known for bruising three tomatoes for every one she bought.

  "Away. Away, get away!" Haviland cried.

  "Away! Away!"

  A noise caught her attention, interrupted her concentration on her grocery list. She glanced up. What is this? A carriage without a horse, and going backward. Well, of course it would on a hill this steep. Wait. That tall man shouting and jerking his head wildly at me like a lunatic, could it be? No, why would he? ... Why, yes, now he is getting closer. Yes, it is. Reverend Haviland, of all people. What can he be doing? I'
ll have to tell Mary. He should stop now, I would say, before he runs into something. What is that he's shouting? So undignified. I can't make it out with the wagon making such a racket. Oh, my, so fast.

  And it's coming at me.

  She froze. The stampeding horse all over again.

  At last, she threw up her hands, as if to ward it off, but it was on her. The wagon slammed into the fruit stand, whipsawed about, caught her square and propelled her into the door frame. She collapsed in a heap, unconscious and drenched with tomatoes. Haviland shot out the side flipped in the air and landed hard on his right shoulder in the road.

  When he came to, a dozen people were gathered, concerned looks on their faces. Doctor Hyland was tending to Mrs. Theall. She had broken her right wrist and was woozy. As for Haviland, sharp pains shot through his shoulder but he could move it. He lumbered to his feet and found Adolphus Bronk inspecting the carriage. Bronk had been working in front of his house since his harness shop had been burned down.

  "On purpose," he told the rector. "You see the reins? Cut part-way through, on both sides, enough so when you pull hard they come apart. A sharp cut, not ragged."

  After Bronk had inspected the horse's harness, he returned shaking his head.

  "Same thing. The fixtures, they were loosened, just enough so when horse pulled up hill the pressure pulls them out. All would not come out together if just one was loosened. Someone did this to you."

  "Who?"

  "Someone that knows about harnesses. That is all I can say."

  CHAPTER 23

  The Irish servant girl smiled and winked knowingly at Abigail as she led her into the parlor of Mayor Van Amringe's mansard-roofed, bay-windowed Second Empire-style home, the only one of its kind in the village. It had been built on a corner of Westchester Avenue, about halfway up the hill to Amelia Theall's, by the proprietor of a bank. Van Amringe had bought it four years ago, when the owner died.

  Abigail had always felt as if she were entering a cathedral, such was the sense of height lent by the long, narrow windows and lofty ceilings. Today, however, they only served to render Mary Van Amringe small and isolated. For it was the mayor's wife Abigail had come to see. She found her hunched hopeless in an armchair in a distant corner, her light brown hair drooped out of the bun at the back of her head, her normally ruddy, smiling, high-cheeked face sunk in sad reverie.