Death in Salem (22 page)

“I went back home and fetched Mustafa. You know, our doorman?” For the first time she looked directly at Rees. “He had to come back and get some help. You were too heavy for him. They brought you here and Mama—One-Eyed Mary—said you could stay, and they brought you up to this room.”

“I see,” Rees said. “And you went for Lydia?”

Annie nodded. “I saw you with Billy.” A faint rose tinted her cheeks. “So I knew you were staying with Mrs. Baldwin.”

“Thank you,” Rees said. “I owe you a debt.” She smiled slightly and turned to go. As she passed through the door, Lydia rose to her feet and closed it behind her.

“I'm sorry, Lydia,” Rees said. “I didn't mean to worry you. I thought I could find out where Benoit lived and be home before you knew I was gone.”

“You should be sorry,” Lydia said, two scarlet circles forming on her cheeks. “I could strike you, I'm so angry. I woke up alone and no one knew what had happened. I was out of my wits with worry. No one had seen you, not even your friend Mr. Eaton. Then that child arrived to tell me you were in a bordello, that she'd found you lying half-dead in the tunnels.”

“I'm sorry,” Rees said again. “I never thought, when I followed Benoit, that he would have a partner.” Had Matthew been the man behind him in the tunnels?

Lydia heaved a sigh. “The earlier attack didn't warn you to be careful? Sometimes you count too much on your strength to save you. You forget you are just a man.”

“I was lucky Annie happened along,” he admitted. Lydia smiled and Rees saw she was calming down.

“Not entirely lucky,” she said. “You gave her an orange?” He nodded, mystified. “You asked for nothing in return. She hasn't gotten many gifts; most offerings come with an expectation.” Her voice trailed off.

As Rees grasped her meaning, anger flooded him in a fiery wave. “She's just a child. Barely older than Jerusha.”

“Fortunately,” Lydia said on a sigh, “this isn't a house that caters to that particular appetite. Still, she has been approached several times. And she told me she has two years before she must decide whether to enter this … profession, or find another way to support herself.” She paused and added, “I suspect she has that grace period only until some gentleman offers enough money to turn One-Eyed Mary's head.”

Rees thought of Annie, the soft childlike curve of her cheek, the unformed skinny body, and choked. He wished he could fold the child in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. “I hope our children are safe.…” He looked at Lydia, wishing he could assure himself of their continued health.

“I know.” She sniffed and took a moment to compose herself. “I miss them so much. We must finish this investigation as soon as possible so we can go home.”

Rees nodded. “We will.” He paused. “I suppose Annie is an orphan,” he said in a grim tone. Lydia directed a humorless smile at him.

“She says One-Eyed Mary is her mother,” Lydia said. “Otherwise I suspect Annie would not enjoy even this scant protection.” Rees shuddered. “But I have a thought.”

“Another adoption?” he asked, unable to keep the reluctance from his voice. “The house is full and bound to become even more crowded.” He put his hand gently upon her belly and felt the child—his child—kick. The water that flooded his eyes embarrassed him and he quickly wiped it away on his sleeve. “Maybe Annie and Jerusha can share a bed. If we move the little kids to the trundle?”

“No adoption.” Lydia smiled at him and covered his hand with her own. “I thought maybe the Shakers? The community at Zion might offer her a refuge.”

“What a good idea.” Relief swept over him. “Will she agree?”

“She must,” Lydia said. “”She has few other choices.”

Rees nodded and for a moment they were both silent.

“And now we should see about taking you home,” Lydia said. “I know they're eager to take back this room.”

“What time is it?” Rees asked.

She crossed to the window and twitched aside the heavy silk draperies. He looked through the glass to the sun setting over the ship masts docked at the Salem wharves.

“How long was I unconscious?” he asked, turning to his wife in astonishment.

“Almost a full day. Annie found you last night.” She paused. Rees realized he had missed all of Sunday. Lydia added with a mixture of remembered fear and tartness, “I suppose we should both be glad you have an exceptionally hard head.”

Rees didn't speak. He was ashamed of his carelessness. He pushed the soft silken cover down and swung his legs to the side of the bed. Someone had removed his breeches and stockings; well, the inhabitants of this house were no doubt used to seeing a man in nothing but his body linen. Sitting upright left him dizzy and sick to his stomach. He paused, waiting for the nausea to pass. Then, with Lydia's assistance, he dressed. He could not bend over to put on his stockings; the room spun. She had to kneel beside him and slip the hose over his toes and up his calves. The shoes, into which he could slide his feet, were easy. Carefully he stood up.

The room tilted. He was very glad his stomach was empty, else he should have deposited its contents upon the fine French carpet. Lydia slid her hand under his elbow. They stood without moving until the walls of the room righted themselves.

Descending the first flight of stairs was horrible; Rees truly doubted he would be able to proceed. But, as he continued moving, he began to feel better. The second flight was easier to navigate, and by the time he reached the grand staircase that swept to the ground floor, he was able to descend under his own power. They did not pause but walked straight across the hall to the front door and out to the street.

By the time they let themselves into Mrs. Baldwin's yard, the sky over Salem had darkened to purple and the lanes lay in deep shadow. Billy hurried out of the house to greet them. “My mother has been worrying,” he said, his gaze drawn to Rees and the white bandage around his head. He supposed he must look seriously injured. “What happened?”

“I was hit by something,” Rees said, making up his mind in an instant to say nothing about the tunnels or following a sailor.

“He was attacked,” Lydia said.

“But I don't know by whom,” he added very quickly.

“Probably by some old tar down on his luck,” Billy said wisely, hurrying to the older man's side and putting his strong young shoulder under Rees's left arm. He did not really need the support, although he appreciated it when climbing up the stairs. Lydia helped him into a chair by the window while Billy went down to speak to his mother about supper.

Lydia found her sewing scissors and began snipping at the linen strip binding Rees's head. “I never had a chance to see the wound,” she said. “By the time Annie found me, someone had already bound your injury. I believe it was still bleeding.” Her voice broke and her busy fingers stilled. “Annie said she found you lying in a pool of blood.” Rees turned to look at her. She turned away from his gaze, wiping the tears from her eyes with her apron.

“I'm sorry,” he said, reaching out to take her hand. He did not like apologizing, but her tears, so unusual for his feisty wife, inspired in him a surge of guilt. “I could have been more careful.”

“Indeed,” she said. “You might have left me to care for all those children by myself. Turn around. Let me finish with the bandage.”

It took her several minutes to snip away the linen strip and as the bloodstained pieces dropped to the floor Rees no longer wondered that everyone had feared for his life. “Of course,” he said aloud, comforting himself as well as Lydia, “head wounds do bleed.”

Lydia said nothing, but she pulled the last piece of linen away with unnecessary force. “Oh my,” she said involuntarily.

“What?”

“There is a long cut. And a bump. It looks as though you were hit by a board. Or something like it.”

“Whoever hit me brought that instrument into the tunnels then,” Rees said. “There were no stray pieces of wood lying around.”

“Of course he did,” Lydia said. “He followed you.” For a moment neither spoke. Lydia was wholly occupied with separating the hairs that were glued into a mass by clotted blood. And Rees, who found the tugging on his hair almost as painful as the cut, was trying not to cry out. “Have you thought … do you realize that Benoit was traveling west? If he were following a tunnel familiar to him, well, was he aiming for the Boothe home?”

Rees tried to visualize the alley outside the tavern, and the tunnel that went at right angles to it. “You're right,” he said. “And that makes sense if he's in league with Matthew Boothe.”

“I'm not wholly certain of that,” Lydia said.

“You're pulling too hard.”

“Sorry.” But she didn't sound sorry.

“You may be right. I mean, I'm sure Matthew Boothe and Philippe Benoit are partners. I just can't see Matthew at the other end of that board.”

“I agree. But does he know other men who might be willing—for a few pence?” Lydia wondered, as she found Rees's comb and began tugging it gently through his red hair.

“He does. And I suspect Matthew saw me and told Benoit to lead me into the tunnels.”

A soft knock upon the door interrupted him. Mrs. Baldwin, carrying a tray shrouded in a linen napkin, tiptoed in as though she thought Rees was on his deathbed. Lydia stepped away from Rees to take the tray. “It's just soup,” Mrs. Baldwin said, “but the bread was fresh yesterday. And I added a wedge of cheddar. I bought it at the market. And a fresh roll of linen, as you requested.”

“How kind of you,” Lydia said. “It will do very well. I am grateful; I don't believe we could manage a tavern just now.”

“No,” agreed Mrs. Baldwin, her gaze resting upon Rees's wounded head. “Dear me, I don't know what the world is coming to. But this is exactly why I rarely venture abroad after nightfall.”

“I'm sure my husband will be more cautious in future,” Lydia murmured, urging Mrs. Baldwin toward the door. Once they were alone again, Lydia said to Rees, “The wound is still oozing a little, but I believe I've cleaned it as much as possible without washing your head.” She took up the roll of linen and began wrapping it around her husband's head, her fingers quick. Then they sat down at the small table by the window. Rees picked up a piece of cheese, realizing as he regarded it that he was almost too tired to eat.

 

Chapter Twenty-one

Billy's farewell to his mother at dawn awakened Rees from slumber. He climbed out of bed and staggered to the window. Dawn streaked the sky with rose. The alley outside the yard was choked with people hurrying about their business. Rees felt much better, although he was ravenously hungry. He folded a leftover piece of cheese into a slice of stale bread and ate it. Without coffee to wash it down, the dry bread settled in his throat. He looked at Lydia, who was still sleeping peacefully. He didn't want to disturb her. He dressed quietly and departed in search of something for breakfast.

Despite the early hour the sun was already hot on his shoulders. He walked to the Moon and Stars. Once he'd eaten, he would enclose something for Lydia in Mrs. Baldwin's napkin and bring it back.

Twig was there, seated at a back table with the local paper lying before him. Rees threaded his way through the chairs and tables to join his friend. Twig looked up at him in surprise. “Where have you been? Your wife was looking for you.”

“She found me,” Rees said. He turned to the waitress to order coffee and beef.

“She came to the house.”

“I was looking for that sailor Monsieur Benoit,” Rees said. “She didn't know where I'd gone.”

Twig nodded without curiosity. “Did you find him?”

“I found him. But there was no opportunity to talk to him.” Rees's voice trailed away and he scowled. How frustrating to lose his chance to pry some information from that sailor.

“After your wife left me,” Twig said, “I went and spoke to Deputy Sheriff Swett. He said he would look for the Frenchman.” He sounded quite pleased with himself.

Rees regarded Twig in annoyance. “I wish you'd asked me first,” Rees said, trying not to sound accusatory. “And I hope Mr. Swett does not assume Benoit is Mr. Boothe's killer. I'm not convinced he's guilty.”

Twig's mouth twitched in surprise; he hadn't considered the possible consequences. But he did not speak as the serving girl brought Rees's plate and a cup of coffee. Rees eyed the food and asked for bacon and fried bread; Lydia would need something. When the girl left, Twig changed to a topic of more importance to himself. “Did you know Mrs. Coville and Adam visited the Boothes yesterday?”

“I thought they were estranged,” Rees said.

“Why would you think that?” Twig said with a shake of his head. “Xenobia told me Master William invited them to visit, so they might take some memento to remember Anstiss by. She was quite upset.”

“Who was?” Rees was confused.

“Xenobia, of course. Mrs. Coville wept so uncontrollably she had to be taken to the kitchen and plied with whiskey.”

“What did Xenobia say?”

“That, after years of devotedly nursing Anstiss, Mrs. Coville accused Xenobia of contributing to her daughter's death.”

“Surely not,” Rees blurted in spite of himself.

“Well, as good as,” Twig said. “All this blather about preventing Mrs. Boothe from visiting her family. As though Xenobia was a jailor instead of a nurse. If I'd been there,” he went on, his voice rising with anger, “I would have put a flea into Mrs. Coville's ear. I swear it.”

“And Adam? Didn't he speak?”

Twig shrugged. “I guess not. Xenobia didn't say.” And of course Twig would not think to ask.

Rees pondered Twig's statements. Although he discounted Mrs. Coville's accusations, made in the heat of grief and loss, he knew Xenobia was keeping something back. And Lydia agreed. He needed to question Xenobia more forcefully.