A Wicked Way to Burn (16 page)

H
ANNAH SLOAN WAS
peacefully shredding cabbage for pickling when the kitchen door burst open and Charlotte bustled in, with Lem trailing close behind.

At first, the young man only stood, and gulped. Then, quite abruptly and to the amazement of both women, he began to pour forth a description of his visit to the Blue Boar. While she listened, Charlotte filled a green glass goblet with buttermilk, from the jug on the cellar steps. It was as if, she thought, a lava cone had been lifted up, and a new Vesuvius born.

“Right away, I found Jack Pennywort sitting there, the way you said he’d be. When I told him you’d offered to give him work for a day, and food, he called for another pint of ale. I doubt,” Lem added, pausing in his narration for a moment, “if we’ll get much work out of him when he comes, or if he’ll have much money left
from what you pay him, after Mr. Wise collects what he’s owed.”

“Why on earth do you want Jack Pennywort coming
here?”
Hannah cried out, her cap shaking. “The man’s liable to-make off with anything that isn’t pegged in or nailed down! The last time he worked for Julia Bowers, and her husband the constable, no less—”

“Don’t you think offering a kindness to someone in need is worth our taking a chance?” Charlotte interrupted softly, a quiver of unclear origin in her voice. Hannah swallowed a further protest for the moment. But her expression showed that she was far from convinced.

“Then,” Lem leaped on, apparently enjoying the new exercise, “there was a noise at the door, and Peter Lynch came in with several others, who could barely keep still while the miller spoke. He told Mr. Wise that he’d been harboring a thief in Mary’s friend, the Frenchman, and then Peter and the rest demanded to see the Frenchman’s room.”

At this, Hannah stopped her muttering to listen.

“And did Phineas agree?” Charlotte asked quickly.

“They pushed Mr. Wise aside before he could even answer, and started climbing the stairs. I went up behind, and when I got to the door, the farthest one, I saw Peter Lynch rise up from behind the bed. And he was holding a gold coin! It was a Dutch one, too, he said, a gulden; then he passed it around for all to see.”

“No!” Hannah breathed softly.

“He made Mr. Wise admit it was exactly like the ones he’d picked up from the floor on Tuesday night, when the old man dropped his purse.”

Abruptly, Charlotte felt her neck begin to tingle. Jonathan Pratt had been given one coin. She’d already guessed there was a second one about, and would soon
see if her theory was right. Yet here was a third! And this coin promised to do far more harm than the others.

“After that, the miller shouted here was proof Gabriel Fortier killed the old man for his money. He said when the Frenchman came back to get his clothes, Providence made him drop a piece of the treasure he’d stolen. Some of the men talked about finding the Frenchman and giving him a taste of the whip, before they gave him over to the law. But since nobody knew where to look for him, they finally settled on going to hand the coin over to Mr. Bowers.”

“It’s clear what Peter Lynch thinks to gain by it,” Hannah interjected, her face livid with indignation. “It’s the girl Lynch wants, and he’s out to get her, no matter what he has to do!”

Charlotte felt the color drain from her own cheeks, and put her hands to her face to warm them again. Neither she nor Hannah believed the miller’s accusation to be true. But how had Peter Lynch come by the coin? Could it be that her recent conclusions were wrong? What if the merchant really
had
died after all—been killed, or at least abducted? If his gold had been taken from him by force—but in that case, where could the body have gone? And why would a man like Peter Lynch risk suspicion by producing such a coin,
if he had actually killed Middleton for it?
No; it was all too ridiculous. Especially when she herself could offer an even simpler explanation for the appearance of the second coin—and show there
was
no third.

“The main thing holding the others back is that no one’s found what’s left of the merchant,” Lem finished, gingerly setting down his empty goblet. “But as soon as someone does, several of the miller’s friends promised to help him turn Bracebridge upside down to find the Frenchman, and then hang him from a tree!”

It was a terrible thought. Yet it was something at least a few of the local folk, whose families had recently suffered at the hands of the French, might easily do.

“I only hope they don’t become tired of waiting,” Charlotte said bleakly, as she slowly brought a canister of black tea down from its shelf, and took the kettle from the hob.

THE TEA WAS
half consumed when Lem insisted on going back to his hammer and maul. Shortly after that, Jack Pennywort knocked lightly at the back door. Looking somewhat the worse for wear after his few days of fame, the little man sat and took a cup with plenty of sugar, along with a heavy slice of nut loaf spread with butter.

Between mouthfuls, Jack attempted to explain again, in language suitable for his new audience, what he’d seen and done on Tuesday evening. Outsized and outnumbered by the two women, he also fidgeted, and kept a close watch on the door, even as he accepted a second piece of buttered bread. And yet, thought Charlotte, Jack managed to answer the questions she put to him with at least the appearance of honesty.

“Then you actually saw the gentleman’s figure moving for a few moments through the flames. But you didn’t see him again afterward?” she asked as she leaned forward on the table, while Hannah kept her eyes on Jack from across the room. Pennywort had obviously tired of telling a story he no longer dared (or cared) to embellish. By now, it was far from fresh, and had begun to shrink a little, which seemed to have caused it to lose some of its flavor. Still, as long as the ladies were interested….

“That’s right,” he agreed, staring blankly at a pair of candlesticks that gleamed on the window ledge. “As I say, I saw a pale flash, and another gleam, like, after that. Then came the flames and smoke. After the smoke had
gone off and the
blue
fire rose, I looked far and wide, but I saw no sign of anybody there at all.”

“And at your feet?” Charlotte asked, watching him intently. “Did you think of looking there?”

Jack said nothing, but regarded her with a wary expression.

“You say the road was brightly lit by the flames?”

“There was light, and shadow, of course,” he answered finally. “ ’Twas too bright to look at the fire for long.”

“And then you saw the man waving through the flames—now I can’t seem to remember, did you say these flames looked to be red?”

“First regular, then blue, I said, mistress. And no one can tell me different, because I know what I saw!” he added hotly, sensing that she might be trying, as others had, to confuse him.

“I’m sure that’s so,” she answered with another offer of the bread plate, which Jack again accepted. “Earlier,” she went on calmly, “I heard—well, they say you left the tavern on the heels of the old man, and went off in the same direction. But I never heard anyone say why you decided to follow him—”

Jack winced suddenly. Clearly, a piece of nut had affected a rotten tooth. As Charlotte watched with sympathy, he readjusted the morsel with his tongue and thumb, and then went on.

“Because I expected he might get into trouble, as the Frenchman had gone off before him, and we’d all seen that gold.”

“Extremely sensible. And thoughtful of you, too.” Her kind words were rewarded with a crooked, gaping smile. “But you didn’t actually see the Frenchman outside, did you?”

“He could’ve been waiting behind some trees. Soon
as I saw the old man slip down from the road, that’s the first thing I thought—”

“Down from the road?”.

“He went off toward a clump of fir trees. It was the ale, and the cold—that’s what I figured. Not worth mentioning. When he came back, I followed him a little longer, until I saw the rest.”

“So, it’s not very likely that Gabriel Fortier was in the trees, or somehow made Mr. Middleton disappear a moment later.”

“Could’ve had a charm—maybe put a spell on him, some say. I don’t know about that myself.”

“More tea, Jack? I’m sure you’ll wait for another cup, with more sugar? Now, I wonder if I can recall what it was I heard about a brown bundle the merchant carried….” she added to herself, getting up to spoon more leaves into the warm pot.

Jack had by now begun to massage his jaw. When Charlotte poured the hot water, she saw him reach into his breeches pocket for something, probably an oil-soaked clove, which he expertly nestled into the source of his pain.

“What
about
his bundle?” Jack asked after a bit more thought.

“Well, did he have a bundle when he came back to the road?”

“I never said he had a bundle.”

“But he had, before. I’m sure Mr. Longfellow told me he was seen with one earlier. Did you go back to look for it in the trees? Perhaps some time later?”

Pennywort gazed around, consulted with his crooked foot, and finally replied: “Next morning, I did. No harm in that, is there?”

“None at all. A man has a perfect right to be curious, I’d say. Even a woman. What did you find? Something mysterious?”

“All I found was string.”

“String?”

“Aye, string. Only a piece of string. Not worth mentioning, you see.”

Jack had ceased to see the point of retelling the story, especially its pointless details. He began to stretch on his chair, looking toward the backyard, his tongue working its way around his mouth to catch the last of his small meal.

“Do you know, Jack,” said Charlotte, almost done with him, “you tell your story so well that I can practically see it happening. You first saw two glimmers of light. The first was just a pale flash. And then, a gleam. Now, I can almost see that gleam, and it looks to me like a coin catching the moonlight—maybe a piece of gold dropped carelessly onto the road? One you might naturally bend down to pick up, when you reached the place where it fell?”

“What if I did?” Jack answered, puffing himself up with sudden fright. “I’d be an honest man still, though there’d be them as would say I stole it
all
, if I said I pocketed the one! Why, I only come
here
to do an honest day’s work for you. But some might say it looks like you be trying to trap me—”

“I do believe you only picked up what had been dropped … but dropped for a very good reason. Of course, you know the main reason I called for you is that our woodpile needs another splitter, and that’s certainly warm work I’m sure you’ll enjoy this cool afternoon. Only tell me one thing more—aren’t you a close friend of our miller, Peter Lynch? Could it be he took the coin you’d found away from you, afterward, for reasons of his own?”

The little man had gone as white as fresh bleached linen. Whether it was the pain of his tooth again, or a fear of something greater, she couldn’t be sure. But he
held so strongly to his story that Charlotte was finally forced to let him go, after he’d repeated it all once more, at top speed.

“I got nothing out of it, God help me!” Jack concluded shrilly. “Naught from the miller, naught from the old stranger! Naught but
string!
I’ll give you no more talk now, and no work, either! Not this day, I won’t.”

With that, Jack Pennywort hurled himself lopsidedly into the yard, leaving his gentle inquisitor to tap her chin thoughtfully, while Hannah Sloan put down her broom.

I
T WAS NEARLY
four o’clock when Charlotte Willett put the final touches to her costume, and slipped a few small objects into a pocket that hung beneath her petticoat. Then, taking up her skirts, she left her bedroom and moved carefully down the narrow stairs.

Before slipping wool over silk, she stood for a moment by a long glass at the door to take stock of her appearance. The clear blue of the dress she’d chosen certainly complimented her eyes. The pinned-in square of wide lace that lay over her bosom covered it modestly, but not entirely, which was the expected effect. And although there were no preparations on her lips or cheeks, her natural high color (and steady exercise) kept her looking healthy, capable, and consequently interesting, without attracting overdue attention. It was a pleasing thought.