A Wicked Way to Burn (33 page)

“It’s certain he looks nothing like what he did, without his disguise,” Longfellow cautioned. “We really have nothing to go on there, other than the fact that he’s not overlarge … or oversmall.”

“What about this fiery display of his?” Thankful asked with curiosity.

“That? Just a parlor trick. I could do it myself. In fact, I think I might attempt it for the effect it would have on the town. They need someone to teach them a thing or two about believing in black magic.”

“You had better pray they don’t go after you next! Of course,” she continued, sitting and picking up a bowl of nuts, “lately there’s been the usual talk of spirits here,
too. We generally hear it more during the autumn. I suppose it’s mostly done for amusement. But it’s not only between the young and the simple, you know. For every girl who casts a ball of yarn through the window to see her future husband pick it up—oh yes, they still do it—there’s a sensible man wondering who might have made his pig sick, or a calf die.”

She twisted a wooden screw into a walnut shell, and gave her guest the results with a handsome smile.

“So you were already looking out for something unusual,” Longfellow commented, looking along his outstretched legs to the riding boots he wore today over woolen knee breeches. In the heat of the room, both had become somewhat uncomfortable.

“Oh, yes. But we’ve always got new people coming through, and many of them are noticeably odd, especially those going to the West. A good half of Worcester moves that direction every year, as well. Lately, though, some of them have come back with stories that are
truly
frightening.”

“Pontiac?” He sat up, and set his glass on a table to look at her more carefully.

“It seems the war’s not over yet, after all. Not his war, at least, and not for the Ottawas. It’s farther away this time, but it’s led to even more fear and hatred than there was before. No one here knows them any more—the Indians, I mean. So they don’t look on them as warriors worthy of respect—and that’s no way to go to war, if you want to keep your scalp! But our young men see only the few who stayed around here—most nothing like they once were. In fact, it’s tragic to see what they’ve become.”

“What about the French Neutrals in the area?”

“That’s another charming story. I’d say they’re worried, and with good cause.”

“About the frontier?”

She shook her head, frowning. “They don’t have much to gain there any more. No, mostly they fear some of the good people of Worcester, and what they’re likely to do to them, now that Gabriel Fortier is gone missing. They say he’s being hunted for your unpleasant miller’s death. Is it true?”

“Mmm, although I think it’s unlikely they’ll find Fortier now, unless he’s a very simple fellow. Which I doubt.”

“I’ve had him here—this summer. He helped clear stones from some of the old fields around the place, the ones Asa couldn’t be bothered with. Gabriel should have stayed a farmer; it’s apparently what he wanted. But his family had him learn a trade. They bound him to a cooper. He served his time, and then was let go. It seems he wasn’t the most pleasant soul to have around, even in a barrel shop—being very sensitive to things that were said of him. You know how men are always going on, especially about politics and the war. Now, I suppose Gabriel is at loose ends, with no tools and no custom of his own.”

“You know about the girl?”

“Frye’s daughter? Yes, I’ve heard. Poor thing.”

“That’s why I’ve come. I plan to see him, if you’ll give me directions.”

“Oh-ho! Would you like to take along one or two of the dogs? He’s been known to hide from certain visitors, and to turn on others with a cudgel.”

“I think he’ll talk to me. In fact, I think he’ll be expecting a visit.”

Thankful Marlowe gave her guest directions to the Frye farm, and walked him to the front door.

“Good luck, then. Will you be back tonight? No? Come by again when you can stay longer. There’s always a bed for you here, no matter how full up we are. And be sure to give my regards to the very patient Mrs. Willett.”

“Of course,” Longfellow replied uncertainly. Only after he had ridden away did Mistress Marlowe let out a peal of laughter—which rang so loudly that one of her lodgers stuck his head out of his window, wondering what he’d missed.

ELIAS FRYE SAT
on the porch of his house in the woods, sipping at intervals from a cup he replenished from a stone jar by his knee. As Longfellow rode into the cabin clearing, the gray’s nostrils flared at a dozen different smells and sights that confronted them. Ahead, a wolf’s pelt was nailed to the logs of the house to cure; to one side, the thick red fur of a fox hung beside several lesser skins from the limb of a dead tree. Assorted gnawed bones lay strewn about the snow-spotted yard, between the ribs of broken casks and old wheels, and a few rusting beaver traps. It was a scene Richard Longfellow was prepared for. But it was still enough to disgust him.

Drawing himself up, he squinted at the unpleasant old person under the mossy roof, who gave him back a false smile. Longfellow dismounted, kicking away a pack of curious dogs who turned out to be more sniff than bite, and tied the horse’s reins to a branch of a tree.

It soon became evident that Elias Frye had no qualms about discussing his old acquaintance.

“I did hear tell of Peter being dead—killed by that boy, I imagine,” said Frye, taking another sip and watching Longfellow prod a clump of wood fungus on a stump with his boot.

“No one knows,” he finally replied, “though as a selectman, I can tell you we’re not making any accusations just yet. But we have a few questions for you, concerning the miller.”

Elias Frye lowered his eyes; he seemed to be trying hard to recall something.

“Peter Lynch was here on business,” he finally began, looking up again. “On Monday, it was, he stopped to see me, like the good friend that he is. Or was,” he said with a frown. “Asked me how my family were, and he give me a few jugs of cider, too, as a present. He’s spoken for my oldest girl, you know.”

Frye fastidiously picked a bit of food from the sleeve of his filthy jacket, and flicked it off onto the ground.

“Did you
actually
want to marry your daughter to Lynch?” asked Longfellow, pinning the man with his eyes.

“Course I did! Why not? Hadn’t he money, and property? That’s a fine mill to run, too. And didn’t he ask me proper, paying me for the honor?”

“Oh, I’m certain he did that. Just as Jonathan Pratt paid you to have your daughter work for him for three years, rather than see her go from childhood into the miller’s arms. You relied on Pratt’s sympathy, didn’t you? It was worth money in your pocket. And there was always later for the miller, although he would have preferred sooner. At any rate, you’d have been glad to do another favor for Lynch if he asked you—isn’t that right?”

“What kind of favor?”

“Oh, you might say that he was somewhere, when he wasn’t.”

“I told you he was right here, on Monday.”

“Yes, even before I’d asked you.”

“Well, I knew
somebody
ought to come and ask me about him, because he’s dead, ain’t he! And we both know who did it,” Elias Frye whined.

“Yes, he’s dead. That’s why you can tell me the truth now, and not just what Lynch told you to say. I believe he was nowhere near here on Monday. I think—I
know
—he had another errand to do. Perhaps on the coast?”

At this, Elias Frye paled; even his dogs seemed to sense the fear that had shaken through his narrow body. They slunk quietly in a row around the corner of the house, with hardly a backward glance.

“What do you want from me?” Frye eventually managed, his throat tight and bobbing.

“The truth. And a promise that you’ll leave Mary alone, so she might make up her own mind about what to do next.”

“Well, the Frenchman can have her, and welcome—if he keeps his neck free of a noose! I’ve got more. I doubt anyone
else
would have her, now. I only tried to get her something better for herself, and for us all! Though there’s some say I ain’t done as well as a father might for his motherless children, I done what I could, all alone, with what I got,” he wheezed, pulling a horrible handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at an eye, then mopping his forehead.

Longfellow looked slowly around, sensing that there were others hiding nearby. One young girl in particular was in his thoughts … Mary’s likely successor in Frye’s plans.

“Let me warn you about something,” Longfellow began again. “If you don’t tell the truth, you could very well anger whoever it was that murdered the miller. In any event, I’ll see that the courts and the lawyers tear apart this story of yours. And they may do far worse! This thing is far from over. Very possibly, it’s about much more than Lynch’s murder. So there
will
be more questions, until we learn the truth.”

Frye said nothing. But a girl of twelve or thirteen, wearing a ragged homespun dress, now walked out of the door behind him and stood facing Longfellow defiantly. At first, he thought she meant to join her father, but such was not the case.

“The miller never came here on Monday, sir. He
never came at all last month. Old Man barely knows what truth is, so you’d be foolish to trust him!”

“Your father had no contact with the miller at all?” Longfellow asked with some surprise.

“He went to see Peter Lynch last week in Bracebridge, and stayed the night,” the girl replied. “We don’t know what they did, but if it was wrong, it’s not the first time he’s shamed us. Might be the last, though.” She gave a sour little smile to the back of her father’s head. “One day soon we’ll leave, and then
he
can drink himself to death … if he can find the money.”

“Has Mary been here recently?” Longfellow pressed her. He watched the young girl’s expression change abruptly.

“Mary hasn’t been able to come since winter, but she writes us, and I can make most of it out,” her sister replied anxiously. “Did she send you?”

“No, but I’ve seen her, and she’s well. My name is Longfellow. I live next to the inn where Mary stays. If you have information about your father and Peter Lynch, you might be asked to testify in court. Then again, you might not. You could prefer to keep what you know in reserve … in case someone should try to make you do something you don’t care to—as Mary was nearly forced into doing. If anything like that should happen, go to the Three Crows, and ask Mistress Marlowe to send for me.”

The young girl nodded sharply, though he thought he saw a question in her gaze. At the same time, the old man seemed to deflate. He again applied his handkerchief in a gesture that asked for pity. A sudden wail from a child sent the girl flying back inside. Longfellow’s eyes followed her in silent admiration.

What the girl had said probably proved some kind of collusion, he thought when she’d gone. As he had supposed. Satisfied for the moment, he started for his horse.

“She’ll do what she likes, that one will,” Elias Frye
rambled on to himself, after taking another long pull from the jug. “She’s smart, she is, there’s no doubt of it. Go away and leave her old father alone. Ah, let her go! Let her try to find a man herself. She’s no beauty—not like my Mary. My very own, very nice Mary,” he snickered drunkenly to himself, apparently thinking of happier days.

Was
that
the real reason the father had kept Peter Lynch on a string—fear of his anger at learning, on his wedding night, the vilest of family secrets? By sending his daughter to work at the inn, had Frye hoped to put the blame for a sin of his own on someone else, if and when time revealed it? Suddenly, the stench of the place became unbearable.

It was enough, thought Longfellow as he rode away, to sicken a man. Surely it was enough to make a child do whatever it could to be free of the abuse, the squalor, and the ugly lies that life at home had always held. A young woman would naturally dread the continuation of such a life, in the arms of another man equally cruel, or quite possibly worse. That kind of fear, Longfellow realized, might have driven a person like himself to go beyond the law, beyond the rules of sense and decency. Might it even, he thought morosely, in a like situation, have driven him to murder?