A Death in Utopia (5 page)

Before long it was over and some of the younger men carried the closed coffin from the parlor, down the front steps and slipped it into the back of the carriage. Old Mr. Hopewell's shoulders sagged as he watched them lift it, but the rigid expression on his face never changed. He shook hands with Mr. Ripley, took his place in the carriage and soon rumbled off on the road to Boston.

Classes weren't held on Wednesday afternoons, so Daniel and Charlotte decided to walk into the city and tell the sheriff about the footprints they had found. Ellen and Fred tagged along. Ellen said
she had to buy pepper and nutmeg for her mother's baking, but the two of them were more interested in getting away from the bleak feeling at the farm than in buying spices.

The four of them trudged along the road while clouds gathered overhead and wind swirled dead grasses across their paths. The goldenrod had died out and the fields were brown with defeated bushes drooping toward the ground. When they got to the edge of the city, Fred and Ellen headed off for the market near the docks while Daniel and Charlotte went to the new City Hall on School Street to see the sheriff, Samuel Grover.

They found Mr. Grover sitting at a large desk poring over some papers. A skinny clerk in a black suit sat in a scratching away on a long sheet of paper copying a document. Mr. Grover stood up to greet them and Charlotte was surprised at how tall and large he was. When they told him what they wanted, he invited them to sit down and asked Daniel to explain.

"It was Miss Edgerton who thought of going to the spot and search for more clues," Daniel told him. "She found a set of prints from boots leading from the road up to the edge of the clearing where the body was found. Here's a sketch I made of the prints, so you can see whether they match Rory's boots. The prints they left show pretty clearly that the person wearing these boots didn't go close to Reverend Hopewell that morning."

Sheriff Grover sent the clerk off to bring back Rory's boots while Charlotte told him about finding the tracks. "They went from the road up toward the blueberry bushes where people were gathered, but it was muddy that morning and I could see that the prints stopped right behind the big chokecherry bush. There were a lot of prints right there, but then a line of them heading back to the road."

"You think this proves that O'Connor was just an innocent passerby?" asked the Sheriff.

"Yes, he wasn't close enough to where it happened" Daniel answered. "Besides, if he had killed Reverend Hopewell, why didn't he take the money that was in his pockets? He even had a gold pocket watch with a chain. No one could miss seeing that. Any thief would take it."

"And where would he get a hoe?" Charlotte asked. "Mr. Platt didn't say anything about seeing the tramp carrying a hoe. Where did it get to?"

By this time the clerk was back with the boots. They were pretty worn down and shabby, but the length was the same as Daniel's measurements. One of them had a hole in the sole that matched exactly the mark in the picture.

Sheriff Grover looked over the picture and the boots carefully. He even carried them to the window to get the full light.

"Yep, these look like the same boots all right," he finally agreed. "But I have to see for myself. First I have to go out there and take a look at these footprints for myself. It's curious that the money and the pocket watch weren't taken, but I have to be sure. We can't keep this man in jail much longer anyway. It costs us money to feed him. If I'm satisfied everything is the way you say it is, I'll see about setting bail. We'll still want to keep an eye on him though. You can't trust a tramp like that. They're always getting into trouble."

Daniel gritted his teeth and said nothing more to the sheriff. When he and Charlotte got outside though, he muttered. "That sheriff would love to pin a crime on Rory. He doesn't care whether the man's guilty or not. As long as he can blame some Irish tramp everyone will be satisfied."

"The only way we can be sure Rory isn't blamed," Charlotte answered, "is to find the person who is responsible. We just have to work twice as hard."

"First of all I'm going to write up this story for Mr. Cabot and see whether he'll print it in tomorrow's paper," Daniel answered. "Then we'll see what we can do for the next step."

Charlotte had agreed to meet Ellen at her aunt's house so she hurried there and found Ellen and Fred talking to Aunt Bridget and to another woman. Both women were making bonnets and scraps of bright colored fabric and velvet ribbon littered the table. As the women stretched the fabric over the bonnet frames and pulled it into place, the silk caught on their red, rough hands.

The visitor, Maura O'Malley, was an older woman with wrinkled cheeks and gray-streaked hair. She held the sewing up close to her eyes and peered at it as she worked. Ellen's cousin Maureen was threading the needle for her, but no matter how weak her eyes were her stitches were quick and strong. She listened without saying anything while Fred talked about the events at Brook Farm.

"Poor Mr. Hopewell," exclaimed Mrs. O'Malley when he had finished. "I remember when he was a young man he used to visit at the house where I worked. Handsome, he was, and so well-spoken. Old Miss Coffin and her niece loved having him come for tea, and he always appreciated my soda bread."

"Miss Coffin was the Quaker woman you worked for, wasn't she?" asked Aunt Bridget. "It's a pity she died. You don't find many employers as generous as she was."

"She was good to me, 'tis true. But I did a few good turns for her too. There's many a time a servant is worth more than gold to her mistress."

"Servants don't often get paid for it though," said Fred. "Don't seamstresses hate having to spend every minute sewing bonnets and dresses for ladies who pay so little? We have to change things in this world so everyone shares instead of rich people having everything."

"You're talking like a true Brook Farmer now, Fred" Ellen added. "I don't know that anything we do at the Farm is going to help the seamstresses in Boston."

"Brook Farm," mused Mrs. O'Malley. "They have some wild ideas, don't they? And Abigail Coffin—Pretlove she is now—lives out there, doesn't she? I hope she finds herself a good husband. She's had troubles enough and a good husband is the best cure for that."

Fred was all set to start on a long rant about changing the world, but the others hurried him off so they could get back to the Farm before dark. There were so many questions to answer about Winston Hopewell's death. There was no time to linger in Boston.

The long trek back to the Farm was tiring and the three of them barely made it in time for supper. Fanny Gray was already putting the plates and tableware out and Charlotte was sure she'd be cross that they hadn't been there to help. Oddly enough, she didn't say anything as they came in and started carrying bowls of food into the dining room. Fanny looked up briefly, but her face was blotchy as though she had been crying and her eyes looked at them blankly. Charlotte wondered briefly if she had been particularly fond of Reverend Hopewell and was very sad about his end. But surely the handsome Winslow Hopewell would not have spent much time thinking about poor Fanny with her graying hair and pinched face.

The dining room was quiet again that evening. Even the youngest students could feel that something terrible had happened. Their eyes were fastened on the adults as though they were waiting for
someone to explain things to them. Timothy Pretlove wiggled uncomfortably on his chair and looked down at his plate, scarcely touching his food. Every once in a while he would glance at his mother, but Abigail was silent and absorbed in her own thoughts.

When the meal was over, Mr. Ripley stood up to make an announcement. "We in the Community have had a great shock and sorrow. We have lost a good friend in the most horrifying way. Some outsider has found his way into our happy group and brought evil to us, but the sheriff is trying to discover the perpetrator. We must continue our work and go about our business, secure in the faith that we will root out this evil and survive.

"One of the Community's friends is coming to visit us on Friday. Margaret Fuller was a member of the group whose meetings led to the establishment of Brook Farm. Her visit was arranged long before the tragedy occurred. It will do us all good to meet again with one of the most respected women in our state. Let us all try to put aside our sorrow for the time being and welcome her."

Margaret Fuller! Charlotte and Ellen were excited by the thought of seeing her. She was said to be one of the brightest women in America. For years she had conducted meetings of women in Boston; conversations she called them, where women including Mrs. Ripley and Lydia Maria Child had met together and talked about the kind of ideas that men studied at Harvard.

While the girls helped clear the tables and take the dishes to the kitchen, Charlotte noticed that even Fanny Gray looked more cheerful. As the two of them washed and dried the dishes together, Fanny said, "I went to Margaret Fuller's conversations in Boston one year. It was because of her that I decided to follow Sophia and George Ripley and move to Brook Farm."

"Does Margaret Fuller approve of our radical ideas?" asked Charlotte. "Why doesn't she join the Community?"

"That's the question I keep asking myself," Fanny answered frowning again as she thought about it. "Her support would help us greatly. She influences so many people. Why does she avoid joining us in our great enterprise?"

CHAPTER SEVEN

Abigail Thinks About Secrets

October 12, 1842

As the carriage carrying Winslow's body rolled down the road, Abigail shivered. Her stomach felt hollow. For eight years she had not seen him; he had disappeared from her life, but in the few weeks since his arrival he had again become a part of it. Just two months ago she had felt strong on her own, but all the secrets she had buried for years swarmed out when Winslow appeared again. Now they hummed around her head like midges at the lake as she paced in her small room feeling trapped.

Timothy burst into the room and demanded, "Will you walk down to the road with me so I can collect some milkweed stems? Miss Gray is going to show us how to make rope out of them."

Fresh air was just what she needed. She picked up a shawl, tied on a bonnet, and walked with Timothy and his friend John Parsons toward the road below the Hive. A mist lay over the distant hills and the sun was sinking lower, but it was still warm on her shoulders as they crunched through the dry weeds. The boys soon found plenty
of milkweed stalks and began to break off the stalks and stack them in a large pile.

Mr. Platt, the farmer, was plodding along the road toward them. He had a bunch of papers in his hand and must have been coming from the post office. His shoulders were drooping, but he straightened up and smiled when he saw them.

"G'Day, Miz Pretlove," he said, touching his straw hat briefly. "What are you folks doing out this afternoon?"

"We're collecting milkweed," said Timothy excitedly. "Miss Gray is going to help us make cord to tie up packages and things."

"Looks like you'll get plenty of milkweeds here," said the farmer. "That's the only thing that's growing good this year. The corn harvest is short and Miz Platt's vegetables are drying up before they ripen. It's going to be another bad year."

"The harvest has been poor on our farm too," Abigail said. And then, trying to cheer him up, added "Did you get any good news in the mail?"

"Good news?" he snorted. "It's been a long time since I've heard any of that. My brother went out to Pennsylvania a couple of years back. Heard there was cheap land and lots of jobs building that big canal system from Philadelphia to the Ohio River at Pittsburgh. I told him it would come to this."

"Come to what, Mr. Platt?"

"Re-pu-di-a-tion, that's what it's come to. Pennsylvania borrowed so much money it couldn't pay the bonds and now the banks have collapsed. That canal won't never get built, nor the railroads neither. There's no work. No one will buy back the land. And no one will invest. Do you know what they're singing in England these days?" He read from a grimy newspaper he was carrying.

"Yankee Doodle borrows cash,

Yankee Doodle spends it,

And then he snaps his fingers at

The jolly flat who lends it.

Ask him when he means to pay,

He shews no hesitation,

But says he'll take the shortest way,

And that's repudiation!

Mr. Platt sighed as he folded up the paper. "What's a man to do? My brother can hardly feed his family."

"Maybe your brother can come back to Massachusetts. Times are bad here, but quite a few people have joined Community and are hoping to make a new start that way."

Mr. Platt snorted again. "There are too many radicals in your Community with their queer ideas. How are they ever going to make a success of a farm? Most of them don't know one end of a cow from the other."

His voice was so gruff and bleak that Abigail didn't have the heart to say anything. Maybe he was right. A few years ago everyone had been so hopeful, but the great changes they had wanted weren't coming. She thought again of Winslow and how he had looked when she first met him. Tears stung her eyes and she turned quickly to the boys.

"Come on Timothy, come on John, we have to get back now." Dark gray storm clouds were rolling in and the sun was sinking fast. A chilly wind tugged at her shawl. They said good-by to Mr. Platt and turned toward the Hive.

The boys wanted to show their treasures to Fanny Gray, so they walked up to the schoolroom. She was sitting at the teacher's desk
reading a newspaper by the light of a small lamp, but she looked up as they walked in.

"You boys have done well collecting all these," she said cheerfully enough. "Why don't you lay them carefully on the floor under that window so they can dry out some more overnight."

Fanny had never been a pretty woman, but tonight she looked worse than ever. The lamplight revealed more wrinkles in her face than Abigail had ever noticed before. Frown lines furrowed her forehead and deep lines cut into her cheeks and pulled her mouth down. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and tried to smile.