A Wicked Way to Burn (32 page)

After thinking for a few moments with his eyes closed, Lee responded. “I did see several gentlemen come and go while I stayed at the inn, and I spoke to most of them downstairs, over a glass of one thing or another. There was the man from Boston who came to visit a niece, he said, who lives somewhere nearby—but his voice was so hoarse you might have taken him for a bullfrog, and I doubt if he could have disguised it, even if he’d wanted to. Then there was Purdy, from Gloucester. But he left the day before Middleton, or whoever it was, arrived. Wait—what about … no … no. Mr. Mayhew, from the Vineyard, of course, could not be the man, for he stayed until the day
after
the merchant disappeared. There were several others, but they all were far too old to be the gentleman with the good set of teeth you’ve just described to me. Is there anything else about him you can recall? Anything in the least?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Charlotte, turning to go. It had been a wasted trip, after all, for she knew no more than when she’d come in. Now, if she could only manage to leave without being found out…

“You know, Mrs. Willett,” said Lee, moving as well, “the few afternoons I spent with Lydia Pratt were not only for my own pleasure. Please—do listen. I sensed something in the lady immediately, when I first saw her last year … something I recognized, that spoke to me of a loneliness … and a need. I don’t know why I tell you this, and I hope it will not offend you. But as a woman, and a friend of Science, you must agree that some things are only natural. Not that I believe I was right—far from it! But there are certain habits, learned in youth, I’m afraid, which are very hard to break. That, too, for a man at least, and a traveler, is only natural. And I am a naturalist myself.” He grinned, leaping around her to the door, an eager and almost childlike fellow, she finally had to admit.

Lee held the door open, then looked at Charlotte for a moment in all seriousness. “It is important for me to know the world will not despise me for my past sins, which I deeply regret. Is it possible that you, as a representative of this fine village I’ve grown to admire, can forgive me? I would, I assure you, never in the world hurt one of the female sex. On my honor.”

Just what that might be worth, Charlotte was not quite sure as she heard the door close behind her. And yet, somehow, she did believe Adolphus Lee. She had favored him with a slight nod, and a small smile. But again, she thought as she crept down the stairs, she had learned nothing new or especially useful from this unusual man. Except, perhaps, that it might be only fair to think somewhat differently of Lydia Pratt. Lonely? She supposed it was possible. And certainly, she herself knew well enough what loneliness could mean. Should she try to comfort the woman, when few others were in a mood to do so? So far, she had avoided seeing Lydia and posing the few questions she would have liked to ask. The landlady might indeed be able to add something to the description of Middleton, having spoken to him at some length, as Lee had just mentioned again. Of course, there was another possibility concerning Lydia—one that had already been suggested, which she might also explore….

Avoiding Phineas Wise, Charlotte walked out into the cold air and shivered suddenly. Somehow, in answer to her last question, she didn’t think it a very good idea. And besides, Saturday chores were still to be done, before anything else could be accomplished. Tomorrow, possibly, she would ask herself once more.

VERY MUCH LATER
, toward the end of the afternoon, Mrs. Willett walked in a corner of her kitchen garden, still
considering loneliness. Only this time, after thinking deeply of Lydia Pratt’s situation, she thought of her own. Longfellow had gone off to Worcester, Lem and Warren were in Cambridge, even Edmund Montagu had by this time arrived in Boston. At the moment, Mrs. Willett wished she could rise and sail like winged Pegasus, to see beyond the horizon.

She stooped to pluck the last blossoms of some meadow saffron, gathering them into a bunch. As she sniffed her nosegay, she even began to feel a little like the unfortunate girl in Monsieur Perrault’s fairy tale.
She
had been cruelly kept from a ball, while her sisters put on all their finery and went to enjoy the social world.

But—was a horseback ride to Boston, or Worcester, worth the saddle aches, and possibly even frostbite for her trouble? Not really, Charlotte decided. There was a great deal to be said for taking journeys beside one’s fire, with an improving book … or even one that wasn’t very improving. She would have to ask Richard to pick out something amusing for her from the bookstore on King Street, when he went to take Diana home.

Curiously, Diana had earlier mentioned something about cooking. That in itself was amazing; given the circumstances, it also seemed highly unlikely. But Charlotte hadn’t been summoned to join Diana this afternoon, which left both of them free to get on with their own business.

Maybe she was still hoping a crystal slipper would come into her life again, she thought with some regret. Her eyes settled on the clump of horehound holding onto its pale, woolly leaves, growing in the shelter of an old rock wall. Perhaps this year she could bring herself to boil down the hard candy again. She stiffened, and walked on. It was almost as if her mind, now refreshed and cleansed by the astringency of bittersweet thought,
could finally turn to the problem she had come outside to ponder.

Just like the characters in the fairy tale, she knew that real people often spent time dreaming of change, and especially of gain. Maybe it was wealth, or maybe it was position that they hoped for. Maybe it was love. But who, exactly, she wondered, stood to gain
in some material way
from the deaths of the last several days? In her own experience, death had added to her stock in life more than once. It wasn’t something one liked to think about, but it was something one
did
think about, after—and sometimes even before—someone died. It was, after all, only human.

What about Peter Lynch, then? Had the miller left an heir? Had he possessed the foresight to contemplate the certainty of his own death? Surprisingly, many people didn’t. But he certainly had enough property to consider making out a will. He had no family in Bracebridge. She had no idea if he had relations away from the village, or if he was alone in the world. Peter Lynch hadn’t been a man many would have cared to ask about his personal history. She only knew he hadn’t always lived there. Then again, he might not have cared to leave his goods to a family he had forgotten long ago. He might have preferred to leave them to a family he’d planned to have in the future. Could he have promised money to Elias Frye, or even to Mary directly? Her rejection of him had seemed total, but that hadn’t made a difference to Peter Lynch! If he planned to use his wealth as a bargaining point, Mary might at least have heard where he planned it to go at his death.

No one had yet come forward, and so it was something the selectmen would probably need to look into. She would ask Richard Longfellow, as soon as he came home.

The cries of a pair of hawks circling above echoed strangely through the newly empty trees. She drew her
shawl tighter, chilled in spite of the thin yellow sunshine that fell at a slant onto her shoulders.

As for the other two deaths: she had no idea who might benefit from Middleton’s removal, nor did she particularly care. Anyway, Edmund Montagu would no doubt see to that end of things. And it was, of course, sadly unnecessary to ask the question of young Sam, who had owned next to nothing—only a well-worn musket, and one gold coin. In fact, at the end, not even that.

The walk hadn’t given her much insight after all. But an earlier suspicion, while it hadn’t blossomed, had gained another inch of fresh growth in her mind. It involved someone she had hoped wouldn’t suffer from the week’s evil events. Suspicion was not proof, she reminded herself. Nor was it a reason for withdrawing one’s support from a fellow creature—especially one in need.

She snapped off some last stems of purple asters for the table, adding them to the crocus blooms. Then, Mrs. Willett wound her way to the kitchen door, intending to set some wool-dying herbs to boil. But first, she would make herself a strong, welcome, comforting pot of tea.

T
HE DAPPLED HORSE
traveled over snow patches, puddles, and mud, through a wooded countryside spotted with ponds and open meadow. At first, Richard Longfellow enjoyed watching the sunlit silver trunks moving by, while he listened to the voices of migrating waterfowl. Tiring of that, he began to listen to himself.

While much of Bracebridge looked to the East for news and ideas, Longfellow knew that most of Worcester—when it looked beyond its limits—looked to the West. New land was still to be had past the mountains, if one could take it. Dynasties continued to be carved out of the distant forests and marshes; Indian trails and war roads led the way. Worcester saw itself as part of the future, allied with Springfield and Albany, and all the other towns just starting to expand on the web of great and lesser inland waterways.

Had it really been nine years since representatives
from all the colonies made their way up the Hudson to Albany, to consider Dr. Franklin’s plan against the French and Indian threat? That these men were not able to agree to its sensible provisions for joining together struck Longfellow as a perfect illustration of the divisive and selfish ways of mankind in general, and those of the men who sat in the various colonial legislatures in particular. But it was all water over the dam now, with European peace upon them again.

Eventually, he was sorry that his ride was almost over, when he trotted past Lake Quinsigamond and reached the town of Worcester. He saw the courthouse and the Congregational church, the bowing elms of the Common, the large, painted clapboard houses of the wealthy, and the shops and businesses that had grown up around the county seat. But he didn’t stop until he’d reached a comfortable inn on the other side of town.

There, he pulled his horse up and dismounted at the thick plank steps of the Three Crows, where, sure enough, an unfamiliar boy ran out to take the reins and lead the gray to the stable for its dinner. At the door, Longfellow was greeted warmly by the proprietor, who sent him in to her sitting room fire while she went for some refreshment.

“It’s a brisk day,” Thankful Marlowe commented moments later as she swept in to see Longfellow’s cold-reddened fingers come from under his gloves. Her look told him she approved of his unusually high color. She herself was anything but pale, in either appearance or personality. Everyone knew that Mistress Marlowe had already enjoyed a pair of husbands (both of whom she’d outlived). And it was presumed that, at the age of twenty-seven, she might consider one or two more. The sole owner of a well-known inn and tavern, the widow could afford to pick and choose, which was something Longfellow had been aware of for a little over a year—since,
in fact, Asa Marlowe took his leave. For this reason, he now never failed to consider his possible peril when he stopped during trips to and from the western villages. (That Thankful might doubt he would do for
her
was something Longfellow hadn’t considered, and so he worried while he relished her robust presence. In this, it might be said, he had considerable company.)

“What are the chances,” he asked, sipping the toddy she’d brought, “that this impostor of ours came through here on Wednesday, possibly carrying some Dutch guldens?” He had already gone over the news, detailing the latest observations and conclusions of those in Bracebridge.

“To the Three Crows? I’m sure he didn’t. Most of my stopping customers I know, or I soon get to know … although not quite as well as Lydia Pratt, apparently,” Thankful couldn’t help adding with a wicked laugh. “I’ll ask Angus if he’s noticed anyone spending guldens in the taproom, but I think he would have mentioned it to me. We’re all well aware of what the man was said to look like. I tell you, we’ve been watching our shadows since this whole business started!”

She stood by the mantel, and soon leaned down to prod the logs with a brass poker until she was satisfied.