A Death in Utopia (15 page)

"How's the captain?"

"A fair man. He won't stand for no nonsense and no laziness, but he divvies up the food and drink fair enough and shares out the pay at the end with no holding back and no favorites."

"Sometimes it's the owners who are greedy and shortchange everyone. Do you know who owns this rig?"

"A fellow called Whitelaw. I never saw him but once—a frosty-faced skinny guy, but no complaints from the men."

Daniel was relieved that Mr. Whitelaw owned this ship. At least he hadn't wasted time asking questions for nothing. Now to track the man down and take a look at him in person. The sailor was finishing his mending and heading off, but he turned to Daniel.

"That's a lot of news I gave you young man," he said. "Makes a man thirsty talking so much."

Daniel took the hint and walked him to the nearest tavern for a pint of ale. He soon learned that Whitelaw's office—"Whitelaw and Brown" it was called—was a walk up Beacon Street from the dock. That was his next stop as soon as he could figure out how to find out what Whitelaw had been up to during the past few weeks.

Whitelaw's office was in a small, dark building with a chandler's shop on the ground floor. Through the small, dim window, Daniel could see coils of rope and a shelf full of tools. He walked upstairs, knocked at the door and heard a gruff, "Come In" and was soon facing a thin, tall man in a black suit seated at a large desk. A ledger was open in front of him and at the side of the office were two small standing desks where clerks were copying figures into other ledgers. Two small windows let in some light, but it was dim and the clerks bent over their books straining to see the figures.

"What do you want?" asked the man at the desk. "I'm a busy man so don't waste my time trying to sell me something. I don't need any officers on my ships at this time and if you're a seaman you'd better go down to the dock to find out about work. Don't waste my time."

"I am not looking for a position," Daniel answered trying to sound like a proper Bostonian. "I am a newspaperman and I am writing a tribute to the Reverend Winslow Hopewell, who died tragically only a few weeks ago. I understand you were a leading member of his congregation at the Third Street Church, so I would like to ask you a few questions that would help me. I would like the kind of personal details about the Reverend Hopewells faith and charity that endeared him to the congregation and made his loss so painful to the entire city."

Mr. Whitelaw did not respond with the gracious reply Daniel had hoped for. Instead he scowled as though he'd been given something bitter to chew on. "What business is it of yours what Reverend Hopewell was like or about his private hope? Let churchmen write about one another and praise each other to the skies. I have no time for airy speeches about churchly virtues."

"The people of the city will feel the loss of the Reverend Hopewell. It would comfort them to be able to read about his life and work. It is edifying to dwell on the virtues of the clergy and I believe Winslow Hopewell had a large following. I have heard that many of the women in his congregation were overcome with grief when they heard of his passing."

Mr. Whitelaw screwed his lips up in distaste as if he had bitten into a walnut and found a worm. "Just because silly women wail and carry on, that doesn't mean the man was composed of all virtue. To give Reverend Hopewell his due, he preached a sensible sermon and often extolled the importance of faithfulness in marriage and honesty in business. But he was well-known while he was alive and needs no further memorializing in his death, certainly not in any public newspaper."

"Perhaps you could recommend to me someone who might be willing to talk just a little about the Reverend. Perhaps one of the women of the congregation could help our readers understand why he appealed so much to the female mind. Many young ministers could learn a great deal from his example. Could I perhaps speak to your wife and ask her a few questions about him?"

"Get out of my office, young man. I forbid you to speak to my wife for any reason whatsoever! Your questions would only increase her grief and your presence would sully our home. I want to hear no more of newspaper stories."

With that he walked over to the door and jerked it open. The two clerks were eying the scene surreptitiously from beneath their eyeshades. Daniel ran quickly down the stairs and out the door. Mr. Whitelaw had certainly made himself a suspect with his harsh reaction to questions.

The first thing Daniel had to do was go to the newspaper office to find more information about Mr. Whitelaw. He was a wealthy ship owner, so there must have been some news stories about him and his business. Was he on any of the civic committees in the city or was he an important political figure?

When Daniel went to the
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office, he brought Mr. Cabot the stories he had written about cases that had come before the magistrate during the week. There weren't any spectacular crimes or misdeeds, but Mr. Cabot was pleased.

"These will fill a good column for tomorrow's paper," he said. "You have a clear hand, Daniel. I've half a mind to make you one of my clerks."

"Thanks you, sir, but I'd rather try to be a newspaperman. I am still trying to solve the mystery of who killed Reverend Hopewell and I think I have a good notion who it might be. I'd like to read some of the back numbers of the paper to see whether I can find more."

Mr. Cabot raised his bushy eyebrows and looked at Daniel over the top of his glasses. "I think you're chasing moonshine, young man. The sooner you settle down to a good steady clerk's job the better off you'll be, but you can look at as many newspapers as you want in the back room."

The walls of the back room were lined with shelves holding stacks of newspapers neatly arranged according to the year and month. Where was he to start? Daniel figured he might as well work backward from yesterday's paper. It was slow, tedious work. The inky pages soon turned his fingers black and the smell of them tickled his nose. The room was very quiet. He heard Mr. Cabot go out, telling the clerks he would return after dinner. After that there was
no sound except the scratch of the clerks' pens and the rustle of pages turning.

After searching for an hour, Daniel was beginning to think Mr. Whitelaw must be the quietest and most law-abiding man in the Commonwealth. Then he finally found a mention of him. He was listed as one of the sponsors of the Annual Fourth of July celebration where he introduced the main speaker, Daniel Webster. That was no use so he kept searching. Next he found a mention of Whitelaw as the "well-known owner of the whaling ships
Lark
and
Eagle"
which had arrived in harbor with the largest cargo of whale oil and ivory ever landed in Boston. It was no wonder he was so wealthy. But what kind of man was he? Had he ever been involved in anything disreputable? Was he a man who could kill his pastor out of jealousy?

Finally Daniel found an odd note in an unexpected place. He had been searching primarily the shipping news and civic reports, but in one paper he glanced at the column of Lectures and Exhibits and the name Whitelaw leapt out. It was not Mr. Whitelaw, nor his wife, but a Miss Tabitha Whitelaw who was mentioned as a leading member of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. The Society had sponsored a luncheon talk by Miss Margaret Fuller at Miss Whitelaw's home. The date on the newspaper was November 10, 1840, almost exactly two years ago.

All of the threads in Boston seemed to connect. If Margaret Fuller was a friend of Tabitha Whitelaw, perhaps Charlotte could find out from her more about Mr. Benjamin Whitelaw and what sort of man he was. Not that his sister would say a bad word about him, but she might let slip something about his temper. Daniel de
cided to write to Charlotte and suggest that she might call on Miss Fuller.

First though he would make another effort to find out more about the habits of the man. It was about the time of day when he would leave his office. You can tell a great deal about a man by whether he goes straight home to his wife and family or whether he lingers at a tavern or pays a call on a friend. Daniel hurried down to the dockside again where the fog rolling in made the streets darker than they were uptown. There was still a light in the window of Whitelaw's office, so he stationed himself across the street to watch.

In just a few minutes the light went out upstairs and someone appeared at the door carrying a small lantern. He paused for a minute to look around and started walking briskly up Beacon St. toward a more pleasant neighborhood. Daniel could tell by his height that it must be Mr. Whitelaw so he followed him as inconspicuously as possible. Not that there was any need to worry. Several clumps of sailors were strolling up the street talking loudly and now and then singing a snatch of song. They would have drowned out footsteps even if he'd worn hobnailed boots. Mr. Whitelaw paid no attention to the sailors or anything else, but walked swiftly to the corner of West Street where he turned abruptly to the right.

Daniel had just turned the corner when he saw Whitelaw walk up the steps to one of the small gray houses on the street. It was a neat enough little cottage and well-kept, but nothing like the mansion where Whitelaw lived. When Whitelaw knocked, the door was opened by a little servant girl; behind her Daniel glimpsed a tall woman in a gray dress who held out her hands to greet Whitelaw. He entered and the door closed quickly behind him.

What did this mean? Did Mr. Whitelaw have his own flirtations to carry on? Surely he should have been going straight home to his wife if he was an honest man. Daniel wondered what went on in that mansion of the Whitelaws. He would certainly have plenty of news to give Charlotte in his letter.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Charlotte Pays a Call

November 4, 1842

On Friday morning as Charlotte's young students struggled to copy the words she had written on the large slate at the front of the class, Charlotte couldn't get her mind off Mrs. Whitelaw. Why would a woman who led such a comfortable life become entangled with her minister? Most women were struggling to feed their children and take care of their husbands while Violet Whitelaw wasted her time fussing about bonnets. Did she ever have a serious thought in her head? She wouldn't lift a finger to make the world better. Thinking about all the women like her made Charlotte gloomy, so she dismissed her class a little early for dinner and went downstairs where she discovered a note from Daniel:

Dear Miss Edgerton
,

Yesterday I learned much of interest. I visited Mr. Benjamin Whitelaw in his office and inquired about Reverend Hopewell. My reception was unfriendly and when I asked permission to speak to Mrs. Whitelaw, I was ordered to leave the premises. There is undoubtedly bad feeling there about Reverend Hopewell
.

Perhaps the most interesting news I was able to learn from newspaper files is that Mr. Whitelaw has a sister named Tabitha Whitelaw who appears to be acquainted with Margaret Fuller. Do you think it might be possible for you to inquire from Miss Fuller about the Whitelaws? Is she still visiting your Community? She might be able to tell us more about Mr. Whitelaw's habits and his nature. Another oddity I discovered about the man is that when he left his office last night he did not go immediately to his home, but to another house where he appeared to be visiting a lady. I am growing very curious about Mr. Whitelaw's habits
.

May I call on you this coming Sunday so we can talk further about what we have discovered?

Your respectful friend
,

Daniel Gallagher

Daniel's news strengthened Charlotte's belief that Mr. Whitelaw had a grudge against Winslow. She found it hard to believe that such a respectable man would commit murder, but a quarrel can easily lead to unplanned violence. She had seen men in taverns beat a man half to death in a fight over a missing calf or a spilled pint of ale.

Miss Fuller was staying with friends at nearby Spring Hill, so Charlotte made plans to pay a visit. On Saturday afternoon after dinner she set out with Ellen, a great admirer of Miss Fuller, who was glad to have a chance to see her heroine. They trudged along the heavily rutted dirt road past brown fields covered with a skim of snow. A pair of clumsy young collies barked at them from an isolated farmhouse, but not a soul was visible around the house or barn. Winter was closing in.

At Spring Hill, they quickly identified the house where Miss Fuller was staying. It was the largest house in the tiny village and the only one that looked as though it would have room for entertaining
visitors. Charlotte knocked boldly at the front door and they were soon inside a warm, friendly-looking hallway. Miss Fuller seemed pleased to see them; she was the only one at home except for the cook and housekeeper because her hosts had driven into Boston to buy supplies for the coming cold weather.

The front parlor was austerely furnished with dark upholstered chairs, a large bookcase and a small desk. Charlotte enjoyed sitting in front of the fire blazing in the brick fireplace. After a few polite exchanges, she launched into her questions.

"We are trying to discover the person responsible for the Reverend Hopewell's death," she began. "The sheriff has decided that it was a misadventure caused by an unknown person and he is no longer interested in searching for the culprit. I am determined to continue searching and so is our friend Daniel Gallagher, who works for the
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"I applaud your determination," said Miss Fuller, "but I don't believe I can help you find any answers."

"Oh, but wait until you hear what we have discovered," Ellen broke in eagerly.

"Our friend Mr. Gallagher," Charlotte continued "has discovered that some of the men in the congregation of the Third Street Church were rather angry at Reverend Hopewell." She felt herself blushing as she said that and a slight smile crossed Miss Fuller's face.

"Do you think they were jealous of Reverend Hopewell's influence over their wives?" she asked.

"Yes, it has been known to happen that clergymen are indiscreet. In particular we are curious about Mr. and Mrs. Whitelaw. I have spoken with Mrs. Whitelaw and she appears to be overcome with grief caused by Reverend Hopewell's death while her husband be
came very angry at Mr. Gallagher when asked questions about the man. He seems to harbor anger at the minister. I believe you might know the Whitelaws and perhaps Miss Tabitha Whitelaw too."