Death in Salem (35 page)

Both girls examined her, particularly noting her belly and, without acknowledging her any further, turned their attention back to Rees. “Are you sure you don't want to visit for a while?” asked the brown-haired girl.

“No,” Rees said firmly. He glanced at the blond again. “What are your names?”

“I'm Ruby. She's Lottie.”

Rees's gaze sharpened. Was this Edward Coville's Lottie? “Do either of you know Matthew Boothe?” he asked.

“We both do,” Ruby said. She smiled like a cat drinking cream. “He gave me this hair ornament.” She turned her head so that Rees could see the gold pin, a blue stone flashing at the end, which protruded from the knot on her crown. “I also have a bracelet and ear bobs.”

“I'm ready.” Annie plunged into the hall. Her face was smeared with tears but she held her head high. Rees took the canvas sack from her and they turned to the door, Annie hurrying as though she couldn't wait to quit the place.

 

Chapter Thirty-Two

By the time Rees and Lydia reached the gate, Annie was already through and hurrying up the alley toward the house. Light still streaked the sky, but in the lanes it was almost too dark to see. “Annie,” Rees called. “Stay with us.” He could hear the sharpness in his tone; the shadowy streets around the docks were no place for a young girl. But she increased her speed and soon disappeared into the gloom.

“The wages of sin are not death, but wealth, I guess,” Lydia said. Rees looked at her, surprised by the sourness in her tone.

“Would you wear a gown like One-Eye Mary's?” Rees asked. He thought of the silk he'd been tempted to buy for her.

She laughed. “Of course not. That gown—well, she might as well have been naked. But it was beautifully cut and no doubt cost more than your yearly income.”

Rees nodded involuntarily. That fine muslin alone was expensive. “But we have her daughter,” he said and watched Lydia's expression soften.

“Yes, we do,” she said. “I'd rather have my child than any number of gowns.” She put her hand protectively upon her belly. Rees stopped and covered her hand with his. For a moment they stood together in silent communion.

“What I'm wondering,” Rees said, when they continued walking, “is how Matthew could afford his expensive tastes. A gift like that hairpin…”

“That stone was a sapphire, if I'm not mistaken,” Lydia said. Rees turned to look at her. He might have guessed the stone was a sapphire, but he did not know. Lydia sounded certain. Her wealthy background occasionally manifested itself in situations such as this, surprising him. He wondered with a little ache if she missed sapphire hair ornaments and silk gowns, luxuries he would never be able to provide for her. “It would have been expensive, for us anyway,” Lydia said, unaware of Rees's sudden worry. He felt a little better that she had said “us.” “Maybe it is just a token for Matthew.”

“Perhaps,” Rees said. In his view, Matthew was living beyond his allowance. Where was he acquiring the extra money? Although the boy had not proven to be John Hull, Rees wondered if Matthew had known about his sister, if perhaps she'd paid him for his silence. Maybe blackmail was the connection with the murdered sailor. Rees suddenly thought of Twig. Oh no! “Twig,” he said aloud. With all the other crises surrounding him, he'd forgotten about the body in Twig's shed. Rees hoped the undertaker hadn't buried the body before Rees had a chance to inspect it. Tomorrow, he promised himself, first thing, he would call on Twig.

Annie refused to set foot outside the house, even to visit a tavern for supper. She ate a bowl of bread and milk at Mrs. Baldwin's kitchen table and then went upstairs. Rees and Lydia each ate a slice of Mrs. Baldwin's pie before following their charge to the room. Annie was already asleep in the bed. She did not stir when Lydia lit a candle and undressed. Rees pulled the chair up to the window and rested his feet upon the sill. In that uncomfortable position, he fell asleep.

He awoke suddenly during the night, something teasing at his brain. But the sudden jolt awake shook it out of his mind. All he could recall was that it had something to do with a painting, but of what, and where it hung, he could not remember. Although he tried to drag it back into his conscious mind, the thought resisted and finally he closed his eyes and tried to find sleep again.

Uncomfortable in the chair, he awoke at dawn. He put a handful of coins upon the table for Lydia and Annie's breakfast and set out for Twig's. Xenobia opened the door for him. “He's been waiting for you,” she said, unsurprised to see him this early. “He's already in that barn, talking to the dead,” she added with a grimace.

She allowed him to pass through the house to the back door. He crossed the yard, his shoes darkening as the dew saturated the leather. When he entered the shed, he passed three coffins, of varying sizes, ready made for some future inhabitant. The fragrance of the wood shavings did not disguise the stink of corruption.

The corpse lay upon a wide plank of wood with a canvas sheet as a shroud. Twig was stroking a coffin with a plane and the long curls of white wood dropped soundlessly to the dirt floor. “Came to see what you thought of the body,” Rees said, dropping down to a stool. It did not sit quite right—one of the legs was shorter than the other two—and Rees suspected this was one of Twig's earlier creations. “Hope you haven't buried him yet.”

“You said not to,” Twig said, just as though he always obeyed Rees. “Come and look at this.” He walked to the swaddled shape and, with a soft scratching sound, folded the cover all the way back to the body's ankles. Rees rose reluctantly to his feet. By now that greenish tone was spreading over the skin and the smell was ferocious. He took one look at the chewed eye sockets with their missing eyes and quickly looked away. “You're right,” Twig said. “He was murdered with a sharp blade. Not a sword. Something square-shaped, about two inches in width. Must have been razor sharp.”

“The same weapon that killed Jacob Boothe?” Rees asked.

“Probably. If not, as similar as don't matter.” Rees nodded. He wasn't surprised. It was almost as though he'd guessed, right from the moment he'd heard about the body in the water, that it was connected somehow to Jacob Boothe. “The wound looks a little different,” Twig added.

Rees bent over the gash, the edges a bloodless white and crenellated with bite marks. But the slash wasn't straight, a clean stroke. Instead, regular tears marked the edges. Rees suddenly recalled an episode from the War: a young British soldier in his fine red coat, stabbed by a bayonet as he fled from Twig, struggling to break free. Blood quickly soaked his coat and began pattering upon the ground. “Remember, Twig,” he said. “That boy. The one you bayonetted. We tried to save him.”

Twig nodded. “We took him behind the lines and removed his coat,” he said. “We thought we could patch him up. But he died anyway, a few minutes later. How old do you think he was? Fourteen?” Rees nodded. So Twig remembered that incident too, although the memory seemed to rest more lightly upon him than upon Rees. Twenty years later, and the memory of that boy still haunted him. More now in fact, especially when he thought of David, now the same age as that boy.

“What made you think of him?” Twig asked, looking curiously at Rees with bright blue eyes.

“This wound exhibits the same signs of tearing.” Rees stopped abruptly. After a pause in which he swallowed several times, he continued. “That explains the differences in the wounds between this sailor and Boothe. Boothe was surprised. He didn't have time to struggle or resist. Just in and out from the front, that was the sword thrust. His murder was carefully planned and cleverly executed. But this sailor, well, it looks almost impulsive. He was on guard, wary. When he tried to run away, the killer struck.”

“He was stabbed from the back,” Twig agreed with a nod.

“Boothe was pinned to the wall,” Rees muttered. “This poor tar tried to break free and run.”

“But he was caught like a fish on a hook,” said Twig. Then he blinked, his mouth twisting, and looked sorry he'd drawn that particular analogy. Rees nodded. Both men were silent, the image of the sailor struggling against the weapon thrust that killed him hanging in the air between them. After a pause, Twig continued. “But why? That's what I wonder. What could this seaman have in common with Jacob Boothe?”

“I suspect he sailed upon the
India Princess,
” Rees said, staring at the body. “He probably saw something he shouldn't have, and when he tried to earn a few coins with his knowledge, he was killed in his turn. Can you tell if he was thrown from the docks or overboard from a ship?” Rees asked.

Twig shook his head. “But he was clearly a sailor, a longtime sailor. Look at the tattoos.”

Rees glanced at the meaty biceps, each decorated with a blurry picture, and the tattooed rope around the sailors left wrist. Against the dark skin, the tattoos were almost invisible. Rees realized he had seen the compass on the right arm when he'd taken the body from the ocean but hadn't marked it. “He was stabbed and then his body was dumped into the ocean,” Twig continued. “It was a lucky stroke for you that the tide swept this sailor into shore instead of out to sea.” Rees didn't think it was a stroke of fortune. More like a murder committed in a hurry, and the body thrown into the harbor to dispose of it before anyone could see it. “Oh, and one more thing,” Twig said.

Rees looked at him.

“He isn't African.”

“What? Then why is he black?”

“Corruption turns the body that greenish black. Besides, he's been burnt dark by the sun. Very dark. Look at the hair.” Trying to avoid looking at the ruined face, Rees obeyed. The corpse's hair lay long and straight upon the board. Rees stared at it for several seconds, trying to understand what he was seeing. He'd been so sure this was the mate from the
India Princess.
Finally he spoke.

“If he's not an African, then who the Hell is he?”

*   *   *

Rees started back to Mrs. Baldwin's with his mind churning. The identical weapon used in the murders of Jacob Boothe and the nameless sailor could not be coincidence. Were either William or Matthew familiar enough with the common sailors to be blackmailed? That seemed unlikely. And what about the killing of Isabella Porter? She certainly was not connected to the sailor.

But Peggy could be. And if Twig was correct about the time of death, Peggy could have been involved.

As Rees blundered down the street back toward Mrs. Baldwin's, oblivious to all around him, two men came up behind him and grasped his arms, one on each side. “The deputy sheriff wants to see you,” one said. Rees realized that Mr. Swett had not forgotten Rees's humiliating comments in the tavern.

The men frog-marched Rees to the tavern for sentencing by the deputy. Swett looked Rees over and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Well, well,” he said, “so we found you at last. I think a visit to the jail will teach you manners.”

Rees considered offering the man money, but he had little of it, and anyway he didn't know if it would work. The deputy might accept Rees's few coins and still keep him in jail. And no one knew where he was. Rees had mentioned his plan to seek out Twig to Lydia, but she wouldn't know he'd been captured by Deputy Swett.

The deputy and his lackeys wrestled Rees to the jail and pushed him in. Laughing uproariously, they sauntered away down the hill.

At first Rees tried to attract someone's attention. But most of the good folk lowered their eyes and scurried away. Only a gang of boys looked at him, and they hurled clods of mud and other filth until he was forced to take shelter in a rear corner of the jail until they'd gone.

Then he spent several long hours leaning against the door waiting for someone, anyone, who he might know to appear. And at last he saw Mustafa coming up the hill.

“Mustafa,” Rees cried out. The man looked all around. “Mustafa. Over here.” Finally identifying the direction of Rees's cries, Mustafa warily approached the jail. “I want you to find William Boothe and tell him where I am.”

“Oh, and he'll hurry over and get you out, will he?” Mustafa asked, eyeing Rees doubtfully.

“He will if he wants to find out what happened to his sister,” Rees said. “Tell him I know about Peggy. He's probably in the counting house.” Mustafa hesitated. “Well, go on. You wouldn't want me to tell your Mistress you could have assisted me, but didn't.” Mustafa hesitated and Rees watched emotions play across the brown face. Mustafa had no love for Rees, in fact quite the opposite, but clearly feared his Mistress's wrath. And she had released her daughter into Rees's care.

“Very well,” he said at last.

Rees settled down to wait. Now that he had done what he could to save himself, his thoughts returned to the body in Twig's shed. What thread linked the common seaman to Isabella Porter? Jacob Boothe? But what linked the merchant to this unknown sailor? Rees couldn't make sense of it. Round and round the questions spun until he was dizzy.

“Mr. Rees.” The sudden shout jolted Rees awake. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up on the hard bench. Questions with no answers had put him to sleep. William Boothe glared at him through the small barred opening in the door. “Wake up. What do you know about Peggy?”

Rees lurched upright and almost fell over; his left leg had fallen asleep and now it tingled and swayed beneath him. He must have slept a few hours for the sun was high in the sky. His stomach grumbled. “Find the deputy. I've done nothing wrong. He's angry because I accused him of accepting bribes.” William's eyebrows rose. “He does so regularly,” Rees said. “I believe your sister bribed Mr. Swett to free Philippe Benoit.”

“Why would she do that?” William asked in disbelief. “She could not possibly have known him.”