Cradle to Grave (29 page)

The old man turned and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “I reflect upon the past more as I age,” he said. “Reverend Vermette and I are planning to add stained glass windows,” the elderly man added, gesturing toward the log structure on the other side of the greening shrubs. “It was a dream of mine. I wanted to see them before I died.” Rees followed his gaze to the two large windows on the northwestern side of the meetinghouse. “But now I wonder if I concentrate too much upon my selfish legacy rather than the people around me.”

“What do you mean?” Rees asked, startled by the old man's cryptic utterance.

“Nothing. Nothing. Just an old man's wandering thoughts. Did you bring the picture?”

Rees held out the silhouette.

“And who do you think this is?”

“Maggie?” Rees guessed, looking at the black paper profile. It was clearly a young girl and the artist had managed to suggest Maggie's wispy curls at the nape of her slender neck.

“Olive Baines Tucker.” Mr. Gray chuckled. “Yes. Maggie resembled her. Cutting silhouettes was a hobby of my father's.”

Rees barely heard him. As he worked through the conversation, he experienced a flash of inspiration.

“Olive was Maggie's mother,” he said.

Mr. Gray hesitated, frowning and nodding in turn. “I don't know. Maybe. It is true that throughout that winter Olive never came to town. When I saw her for the first time in many months the following April, she had Maggie. We were all so intent upon the British then.”

“Why keep the pregnancy a secret? Unless…” Rees followed his thought to the logical conclusion. “Maggie wasn't Phinney's child. Who was her father?”

“I don't know. Ask Owen Randall. He always seems to know everything.” He sighed. “It was a long time ago and yet, sometimes, it seems like yesterday.”

Rees looked at the old man, his face crumpled into lines of regret, and said carefully, “Did you never consider marrying Olive?”

Mr. Gray flicked a glance at Rees. “I wanted to. But I was married myself when Phinney died. And after my wife and daughter passed on…” He shrugged. “Olive refused me. No reason.” The hurt, even after all these years, was raw in his voice. “I assumed that, after marrying Phinney, no other man could equal him.”

“But…” Rees started to point out that Olive had found someone to father Maggie, but he refrained. Why cause Mr. Gray more pain, especially now, years later? “Did Phinney know Maggie was Olive's?” Rees asked.

Mr. Gray shook his head. “I don't think so. He never said anything. Of course, by then, he was often lost in opium dreams.”

They both lapsed into silence. Rees was saddened by the long-ago grief and regret. “One final question,” he said at last. Mr. Gray was leaning his head in his hands, clearly tiring. “Did Silas know Maggie was Olive's daughter?”

“Doubt it.” Mr. Gray shrugged. “Maybe he would have been kinder.”

Rees pursed his lips, skeptical. “I'll return this to the wall upstairs,” he said, waving the silhouette.

“No, don't,” Mr. Gray said, stretching out his hand for the framed item. “I'd like to look at it.” Rees put it in his hand. As he walked to the front door, Mr. Gray bent over the framed picture, his expression pensive. Rees wondered if the old man was remembering those long-ago days of youth.

He grabbed his greatcoat from the hook and went out to his buggy. During his visit, an icy wind had sprung up and a light snow had begun to fall.

His visit had taken longer than Rees expected. Clapping his hands to warm them, he climbed into the buggy seat and started home.

The smell of roasting meat greeted him as he turned into the drive. He hastened to put the gelding into the lean-to and park the buggy.

When he pushed open the door and stepped inside, Nancy ran to him, crying, “Surprise!”

Lydia, wiping her hands upon a rag, approached with a smile. “Simon brought some lamb home from the Bakers yesterday. We thought we would surprise you for dinner.” She turned and looked over her shoulder at the iron pot hanging over the fire. “It's almost done.”

“The sheep are beginning to give birth,” Simon said with an air of importance. Rees hid a smile. “This lamb was not strong. Mr. Baker gave me a share of the meat.”

“This is why you wanted me home by dinnertime?” Rees said, looking over Simon's head at Lydia.

“You're like the wind,” she said. “When you leave the house, I never know when you'll return.”

“You're not calling upon Miss Pike?”

“I am. But you didn't need to arrive home this early for that.”

“I set the table,” Jerusha announced.

“I see,” Rees said, glancing at the mismatched plates. She couldn't decide upon which side the forks went, and at some of the settings the forks were on the left, while at others the forks were on the right. But she was so proud Rees didn't have the heart to correct her. “You did a very good job,” he told her.

A few minutes later, Lydia bore the baked meat to the table in triumph. It was a small amount of meat for seven, and so Rees was very careful in its division. He didn't care for the strong flavor of either lamb or mutton, but would never be so rude as to say so. In any case, he made a very good meal on a few slices of the meat and the boiled carrots and potatoes that accompanied it. Not a scrap of the lamb remained when Lydia finally slid the dirty dishes into the steaming water of the dishpan.

Chapter Twenty-five

After dinner, Lydia changed into her best gown, the indigo-dyed dress that was Rees's favorite. Lydia made a bright spot of color standing by the door in her dark blue frock with the burgundy cloak over it.

“I'll drive you,” Rees said. “I need to speak to Mr. Randall anyway.”

“Miss Pike lives on the eastern outskirts of Dover Springs,” Lydia said, smoothing her black gloves over her fingers. “I don't want to visit with her for more than an hour or so; I can't conceive what we shall find to discuss. And I know you. When you're deep in conversation, you forget everything else and lose all track of time.”

Rees, who viewed the prospect of his confinement at the cabin with no buggy or horse almost with terror, said firmly, “I'll drive you and return in an hour.”

Lydia looked at him, her expression skeptical. “Very well,” she said. But she did not sound happy.

Half an hour later, they reached the fine gray stone house at the end of a circular drive. Although bare snowy fields lay to one side, the estate was an uneasy combination of town house and gentleman's farm. Rees suspected not very much farming went on here, although that might change once Miss Pike and Reverend Vermette married.

Rees pulled up at the steps and assisted Lydia to the ground. He watched her ascend the stone steps. Once she'd entered the fine building, Rees drove away, back to town and the Ram's Head.

He allowed the ostler to put the horse into the stable; the snow was falling faster and harder now and to Rees the air felt much colder. He went into the inn. Although a few tables in the common room were filled, most were empty; it was between dinner and supper and the falling snow discouraged casual tipplers from visiting. Rees approached Mr. Randall, who was playing checkers with Caleb Griffin, Maartje's husband.

The old man noticed Rees's approach and jumped several of his opponent's pieces, clearing the board. “That's enough for me,” said Griffin, rising to his feet. “I believe a fresh victim is approaching and anyway, I should get home.”

As Mr. Randall began laying the disks upon the board, he said without looking up, “Care for a game of draughts, Mr. Rees?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Randall,” Rees said. “Mr. Gray suggested I talk to you. About Olive Tucker.”

Now Mr. Randall looked up at Rees. “Olive? I thought you were concerned about Maggie Whitney?”

“I am,” Rees said.

The old man scrutinized Rees with clever blue eyes. “I find this last game has left me thirsty,” Mr. Randall said. “Shall we move to a table to talk?”

“Gladly,” Rees said.

With a groan, Mr. Randall struggled to his feet and paused for a moment, stretching out his legs. “My knees fail me,” he said to Rees. “Don't get old, lad.” Rees laughed a little ruefully; no one had called him lad for many years. Mr. Randall gestured to a table and they sat down. Mr. Randall's daughter ran over with two beakers of ale. “So, what do you want to know, Mr. Rees?”

“Who murdered Maggie Whitney?”

“I can't help you with that,” Mr. Randall said with a smile. “You're not interested in who murdered Silas?”

“I am. But Maggie was first.”

Mr. Randall nodded. “I see. What else?”

“Well, I doubt the motive is money. Maggie lived in a shack on only a few acres. I thought Silas might have killed her for them, but I haven't heard of anyone else who wanted that pitifully small farm.”

“I think your assumption is faulty, Mr. Rees. The small size of that property doesn't mean there isn't someone who wanted it. My nephew, Caleb Griffin, wouldn't have his farm without the assistance of my old friend Elias Gray. He might have coveted Phinney's farm otherwise. There is nothing so small that someone does not envy the possessor for it.”

Rees nodded. “Yes, that is true. Sadly. But in this case, I believe the reason for Maggie's murder is something else. Frequently the past haunts the future. So I began to wonder about her parents.” Rees paused, knowing he was about to step into speculation territory now. “Mr. Gray confirmed several suppositions for me. Olive Tucker was Maggie's mother, was she not?”

Mr. Randall looked to the side, thinking. When he turned his rheumy eyes back to his companion, he said, “I can promise you, Maggie's parentage has nothing to do with her murder.” Rees didn't argue but he didn't agree. The silence lengthened uncomfortably. Finally Mr. Randall said, “Phinney told me Olive was Maggie's mother. I always wondered if he'd imagined it. He'd been sick a long time and the medicine sometimes gave him strange dreams.”

Rees nodded thoughtfully. Phinney would have known. Although Olive might have been able to avoid the village and hide her pregnancy from others, her swelling belly would have been obvious to her husband. “And Maggie's father? It wasn't Phinney? You're sure?”

“Absolutely. He'd been ill for far too long to father any child. He gave Maggie his name, that's all.”

“Do you know who fathered her?”

“No. You must understand, Olive spent a lot of time away from the cabin.”

“Doing what?”

“I don't know that either. But I suspect she was bartering food for opium with the British. She could have been hung for treason by the Patriots. But I think we understand why she did what she did.” Mr. Randall's gray eyebrows rose meaningfully.

Rees tried to interpret the insinuation. “Are you suggesting Olive offered her favors to a British soldier?” He shook his head in disbelief. Nothing he'd heard about Olive suggested she was anything but a virtuous woman.

“Of course not. I'm just saying, well, I doubt we'll ever know who fathered Maggie.”

Rees sagged with disappointment. “Mr. Gray thought you might know. He said your wife regularly called upon Olive.”

“Yes, she did, God rest her soul. She believed charity to the less fortunate was a duty. But she stopped calling on Phinney about then. Too dangerous, with the British everywhere. And she never said anything about a pregnancy.” Rees eyed Mr. Randall in surprise. A pregnancy seemed like it should be big news. After a moment, the old man continued. “Those were dark times, when Phinney died. Still a young man and in such terrible pain.”

“And the war coming,” Rees murmured.

Mr. Randall nodded. “Those red-coated vermin lived in our houses, ate our food, and would shoot you just as easily as looking at you.”

“I remember,” Rees said. “The British were in Maine, too.”

“Trying to keep the inn going was such a struggle.” Owen shook his head, intent upon his memory. “All the officers billeted in my best rooms … but you don't want to hear about that. We were all short of food, whiskey, medicines. Phinney dying—although he didn't finally leave us for five more years—made life very difficult for Olive. We were all desperate.”

The two men sat in silence, recalling the past. Finally Rees said, “Tell me about Elias Gray.”

“We were three: Elias, Phinney, and me. Elias's wife died young, taking their baby with her.”

“Could he have fathered Maggie?” Rees asked.

Mr. Randall laughed. “Of course not. Elias wasn't interested in Olive. I would have known.”

“He never remarried,” Rees pointed out. He remembered Mr. Gray's assertion that he'd asked Olive to marry him and she'd refused. Rees contemplated the old man. Clearly Owen Randall did not know as much as he thought he did. But he knew something, of that Rees was certain.

“Don't jump to conclusions, Mr. Rees,” Mr. Randall said. Leaning forward with an appearance of sincerity, he added, “I'm going to tell you something Silas did not want widely known. He paid the taxes on that farm. The entire amount.”

“No, he didn't,” Rees responded disbelievingly. “When Maggie died, Silas put those children out.”

“I was here when they came searching for you,” Mr. Randall said. He thumped his finger forcefully upon the table. “But Silas would have allowed them back. I am certain of it. I believe you are misconstruing his motives.”

Rees said. “You talked to him, didn't you?”

“Yes. He would never have expelled those children permanently from his home,” Mr. Randall argued. “Although Maggie was not his niece, he cared for her.”

“So why did he go to the farm immediately after her death?” Rees demanded. “I saw him, Mr. Randall. He'd already put some of her poor sticks of furniture into his wagon.”