A Wicked Way to Burn (26 page)

S
OME TIME BEFORE
, Mary Frye had been given an order to see to things downstairs—just before Lydia Pratt went up to the second floor, leaving the girl to guess at her quiet business. Then, the others had rushed in from the meetinghouse, bringing the news of the death of Peter Lynch—news that made Mary’s heart leap, and race with fear. Hurrying out to Gabriel, she sent him off to a secret place known to them both. After that, she kept back from the crowd, while she strained to hear what it planned to do next.

Now, as the villagers headed homeward and the occupants of the inn watched them go, Mary returned to the empty kitchen and acted quickly. First, she snatched up some bread and meat, which she tied in her apron. Then she ran out the back door, pulling her cloak around her. Under her arm, wrapped in a cloth, she clutched a thin blade with a handle of deer horn—the same
knife she’d wanted to bury in the miller on the previous evening.

Soon, Mary began to climb toward tree-covered knolls. As she crossed a tilted pasture, the air chilled her through her woolen garments. She saw that the sky to the north over the river plain had filled with layered clouds the color of pewter, while the heights away in New Hampshire brooded in smoky purples and blues.

In a few minutes she reached the trees, and began to thread her way between the trunks without a backward glance. Once inside the light wood, the girl felt entirely alone; she could hear only her own footsteps treading on the thick bed of leaves, and the distant cawing of a single crow. A sudden volley made her whirl with fear; but it was only icy snow beginning to fall around her. It brushed past high twigs, drummed through upstretched branches as its pellets multiplied, and finally skated across the frost-dried leaves that littered the forest floor.

Climbing on, Mary heard a ground wind rise and cry in the branches. A hiss like rising water came from everywhere, as more pellets began to slide in tiny drifts along ledges of exposed rocks. A deeper sound came suddenly on a downsweep—a roar from the churning sky. As bits of snow were blown against her body like spent shot, she imagined in quick terror the presence of an angry God she’d heard about so often.

Stilling her fears, she chose to challenge this freezing world. Though the inn’s warmth was only minutes away, she plunged instead into a realm without duty or privilege, into a primitive land filled with a spirit that spoke loudly, whatever its message … and with enough power to cool even her own burning. But she had no intention of letting her passion die easily. Soon, she would see Gabriel. Again Mary felt a familiar thrill, shuffling her feet through the leaves to better smell the sweetness that mingled with the bitter scent of snow.

Looking down at her feet, she missed seeing the Frenchman as he watched her approach from behind a tree; nor did she have time to do anything more than let out a small scream when he leapt out after she’d passed. In an instant, Fortier threw his arms around Mary’s slender waist. Before she could do anything at all his mouth covered hers; then hot breath warmed her frozen cheek while tears of pleasure spilled through her eyelashes, and trickled back onto her ears. Suddenly, he pulled away. Twining his cold fingers between her own, he pulled her up and over the granite boulders that guarded his hiding place. When he finally stopped, he took the food she offered, and laid it under a projecting ledge.

“Never leave me,” he demanded, rather than asked, and her eyes widened.

“Never,” she gasped as he clutched her to him. She could feel the strength of his arms beneath heavy woolen clothing.

“No matter what they tell you?”

Mary watched him lovingly, through a mist of tears.

“What do they say of you,” she finally asked, “that couldn’t as easily be said of me? We both had reason to hate him. I’ll fight too, if I have to! We’ll make our plans, and then we’ll leave this place behind!”

There was a trace of wildness in her voice, as well as a new strength that Gabriel had not heard before.

“There’s more to do first,” he reminded her. “For now, I’ll wait here. And you will go back to safety.”

“But you’ll freeze!”

“I’ll build a fire when it’s too dark for anyone to see the smoke from below.”

“Gabriel, I think I know where you can hide inside, where it’s warm—somewhere they won’t look for you.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’ll come for you as soon as I’m sure.”

“Why do you love me,
chère
Marie?” Gabriel asked, pulling her close again.

“Because you’re handsome, which you know is true,” she answered, managing a smile. He brushed back her hair, wondering at its new perfume. Again, the space between them closed and words became unnecessary. For a while longer, they huddled together for warmth, then sought something more. The wind continued to howl, and a fresh, clean snow fell like a blanket all around.

“THE KILLER MUST
have been an unusually strong man.” Joseph Warren settled the quilt over Sam Dudley’s throat, softened now that
rigor mortis
had gone from the young body.

Longfellow had watched closely as the doctor made his examination, guessing Warren’s conclusions before they were spoken. Now, he looked to Lem, who still stood uncertainly by the door, staring at the neighbor he had long known.

“Impossible,” the physician said finally, “to be certain of all the damage done. The crushed area I showed you would have been enough to make the boy lose consciousness; then, his face could have been immersed while he was unable to struggle. If he died from the throttling, there would be no water in the lungs … but I don’t think there’s any reason to look for it. Either way, we know someone was responsible for his death.”

“So there’s no longer a chance that it was an accident,” Richard Longfellow concluded. He watched Lem’s face harden. Then, he turned back to observe Warren’s expression in the fading light.

“I’d say none at all. No more than with the miller.”

“Which is what I thought.”

“Although,” Warren continued, “how the Devil that leviathan you showed me at the church was overcome
in the open is another question I’d like to hear the answer to.”

All three were silent for a moment before Warren had an inspiration.

“It could be that whatever struck him was thrown.”

“A tomahawk?” Lem asked suddenly.

“I suppose that’s unlikely, isn’t it? It’s probably a special talent.”

“Not particularly special, around here,” Longfellow allowed.

“I did notice that the blow was a little off center,” Warren went on, “if that’s any help to you. If it was caused by someone holding on to a shaft, then it was probably held by a person who generally uses his right hand.”

“Which would be most of us,” said Longfellow, wondering again at the extent of the doctor’s dedication to Science.

“And I could be wrong. As you know, this sort of thing isn’t usual in Boston, either—for all the wild Indians said to live there.”

“If someone did manage to strike at him from an
ambuscade”
mused Longfellow, “say, from somewhere inside his mill where a hatchet was handy—then why, and
how
, did he take the miller outside? He’s nearly the size of a side of beef.”

“He is that,” Warren agreed. “Another difficulty, and again one requiring a powerful individual. As for the
why
, I imagine the killer might have wanted to get the body out of the mill to hide it—although the corpse naturally rose to the surface later, in spite of sinking initially. Most might not realize that it would. But—if he was dragged to the pond after being killed … as we believe Sam here was put into the water after he was throttled … that could be a further indication, could it not? Showing a similarity of habit.”

“Then you feel we are looking for one large, cold-hearted, somewhat tidy double murderer.”

“Or, two smaller—who both did the deed, and the dragging?” Warren countered, one eyebrow climbing. “What, Richard, do you say to that?”

For once, Longfellow only scowled, and said nothing at all.

OUTSIDE, THE SKY
had stopped dropping snow, at least for a while, and there was a welcome lull in the wind for their walk back. As the three figures started away from the house, a smaller shot around the corner from the back, trying to catch them before they went far. Anne Dudley had been unable to reach the ear of her tall visitor earlier in the day, when he’d been with the constable, and the man from Boston with the lovely buttons. Now, she had another chance.

“Mr. Longfellow, please?” her tiny voice asked.

Longfellow looked down after feeling a tug on his sleeve. He saw again a short blond creature, and noticed familiar tortoiseshell combs inexpertly nestled above her braids.

“Yes, madam?” he asked, bending. “What is it you require?”

“I was told you’re very fond of crowns,” the child said boldly. Joseph Warren laughed long enough to bring a smile even to the face of the solemn little girl.

“A secret monarchist after all, Richard?” the doctor chided. “This will be quite a story for our club. Sam Adams will be particularly thrilled.”

“Friend Adams can …” Longfellow hesitated, then addressed the little girl with curiosity. “What kind of crowns?”

“Silver ones—” Anne held her two first fingers apart at the proper distance, to give him a better idea.

“Silver … on Spanish dollars, do you mean?” She beamed her approval, and he thrust a hand deep into a pocket to see what he could find, while he asked a further question—though he was certain he knew the answer.

“May I know who told you so?”

“Mrs. Willett. Charlotte’s a queen’s name, too, my mother says, just like mine. Mine’s Anne.”

“A very good name.” He brought out a coin, examined it for a moment, and then gave it over to a remarkably quick hand, while Lem watched with disapproval.

“Mrs. Willett’s quite right. I am fond of them, which is why I occasionally give them to my friends,” said Longfellow, straightening. He was rewarded with a low curtsy before the little girl rushed away.

“Not a very honest way to make a profit,” Lem threw after her. Dr. Warren seemed interested, and answered the boy’s accusation himself.

“So you think talk and flattery are poor things to be paid for?”

Longfellow took the girl’s side. “It was well done, and well coached, if you ask me. Young Anne might make a fine actress on the stage some day, if they ever allow a decent one in Boston.”

“She has lost something this day, as well as gained,” Warren reminded Lem. “Mrs. Willett, I take it, has been here before us,” he added to Longfellow.

“A woman of unusual curiosity, Warren, so beware. Though she’s an admirable neighbor, and a good example to follow, in most things. You might ask this young man about her; he’s apparently begun to formulate opinions on women.”

Longfellow leaned over and ruffled Lem’s wayward hair, before they began the walk back.

“Do you suppose Mrs. Willett noticed what those
who found him apparently missed?” Warren eventually asked.

“I believe she did. She thought to call a medical man earlier today, before I’d mentioned you were coming.”

“One more thing … should we report to your village constable before we enjoy our dinner, or after?”

“After. But then, I think we’d do better to go and tell Edmund Montagu instead—”

“Montagu!” Dr. Warren stopped in his tracks. “Is he here?”

“He’s staying at the inn.”

“Is he?” Warren’s pale eyes flashed. “Then there must be even more here than I’ve seen so far.”

“You know him?”

“Of course. As someone who takes a particular interest in what the governor and his quiet men are up to, I would.”

“Would you, indeed?” Longfellow asked as he regarded the other, wondering how far his new friend would be willing to explain. Warren, meanwhile, attempted to hide his curiosity from man and boy by scanning the clouds above them, as all three crunched along the snowy road.

Longfellow noticed that Lem, too, usually so dull with company, had seemed quite interested in the doctor’s remarks. That, and other things, made him decide it might be time to begin to study this boy more carefully, to see exactly what he was made of—and to guess, from that, what he might become.