Death of a Dyer (25 page)

Muttering “ridiculous” to himself, Rees forced himself to walk up the stone path and pass through the front door. But he stopped in the vestibule, breathing hard, as guilt and grief crashed upon him.

“Are you all right?” Caldwell grasped Rees’s arm, his penetrating body odor clearing Rees’s head with a rush. He nodded and detached the constable’s hand from his sleeve. But, although he moved forward, he went no farther than the back of the church, behind the hand-carved pews. All the seats were full and it looked as though most of the town had come to honor Nate. More were arriving; the throng pressed in around Rees, surging to the front and filling the space behind him. He did not possess the will to press through to the front.

Father Sperling, standing at the lectern in the front, burst into speech. He looked older and grayer than Rees remembered. His praise changed Nate into someone completely unfamiliar. Suddenly spinning around, Rees fought his way through the crowd and back into the crisp morning air. His heart pounded. Furiously he began pacing through the cemetery.

The graves in the churchyard belonged to the early settlers. Some of the families represented here had died out or moved on, and the names were unfamiliar, even to Rees. Both Dolly and his parents were buried in the family graveyard on the farm, with the other members of the Rees family. And where was Nate? Had Molly Bowditch buried him in the graveyard on the farm Thomas now worked, next to his parents?

Footsteps thudded up behind Rees. When he turned, he saw Caldwell hurrying up behind him. “Just making sure you’re all right,” Caldwell said, regarding the weaver in concern.

“Just thinking about death and funerals,” Rees said.

Caldwell nodded. “My mother is still alive,” he murmured. Since this was the first personal bit of information shared by the constable, Rees did not reveal his knowledge.

“She lives around here?”

“Down by the river. In the family hovel.”

Rees tried to think of a question that didn’t sound intrusive but before he could formulate one, the church doors opened and the first wave of mourners surged out; mostly townspeople and single men he didn’t recognize. Businessmen maybe from neighboring towns? Was Cornelius Lattimore, the mysterious lawyer, among them? Rees scrutinized each face carefully as if he might guess.

Then Molly Bowditch and her children exited, blinking in the bright sun, and Rees directed all his attention to them. The widow made great play with her lacy handkerchief, mopping up a few delicate tears glittering like diamonds upon her porcelain cheeks.

Her children did not express their grief so attractively. Grace’s sobbing was audible and her handkerchief too sodden to wipe away the tears streaming down her cheeks. Richard did not weep but his eyes were red and swollen and any effort to respond to condolences contorted his mouth into a silent scream of pain.

Both children fled to the protection of the carriage as soon as they could. Molly smiled bravely as she acknowledged the condolences offered her.

Then Thomas Bowditch and his family came out of the church. When he looked at his sister-in-law, he scowled with mingled fury and grief. Rees took two steps in Thomas’s direction but paused, unwilling to intrude into what was clearly an emotional time. Thomas turned to his wife. She took his arm and they hurried out of the yard to their buggy. Rees doubted that branch of the Bowditch family would attend the memorial dinner—no matter how much they wished to honor Nate.

All the people employed at the Bowditch farm came out of the church in a group, Lydia among them, and were hustled to the waiting wagons. Of course, they must hasten back to the house and prepare for the arrival of the guests. Rees noticed that although Marsh was present, and assisting in dividing the help among the waiting wagons, Rachel was not. Molly Bowditch had been unable to resist that little bit of cruelty.

And now James Carleton, flanked by his family of women, stepped through the church’s wooden doors. Rees turned to look. Mrs. Carleton was as tiny and as pink and white and fair as a porcelain statuette, just as Potter said. Eschewing black, she wore a gray silk gown so pale, it was almost white and as luminescent as a pearl. It exactly matched James’s waistcoat, although the pale silk of his garment was heavily embroidered in subtle shades of cream and gray. He wore a black coat and the matching black long trousers that were becoming so popular overseas.

Mrs. Carleton had passed her blond beauty on to the two eldest girls. The taller of the two, Richard’s beloved, had also inherited her mother’s dainty and regular features. Only her dark brown eyes and fleshy lips came from her father, and on her the rosy fullness beckoned a man with seductive promise. Elizabeth’s younger sister was also blond, although her fair hair was a shade or two darker, and she appeared just old enough to put it up. She, too, was very pretty but a paler shadow of her beautiful older sister.

Only the youngest of the three resembled James. Dark-haired, stocky, and with that pugnacious outthrust jaw, she was the boy her father should have had. She scowled ferociously at everyone, already aware, at the tender age of eight, of her unfortunate appearance. Rees could just imagine all the comments she’d probably heard; people could be so heartless.

Richard peered through the carriage window, staring at Elizabeth longingly, and made as if to jump out. But the glance she returned, although it included longing and desire, was nuanced with uncertainty. James nodded at the lad but made a quick and furtive warning motion with his hand. And Mrs. Carleton, throwing a dark glance at Richard, grasped her daughter’s arm and pulled her toward the elaborate Carleton carriage.

“Enjoying Dugard’s own little
Romeo and Juliet
performance?” George Potter murmured into Rees’s ear.

He jumped and whirled. “It’s … interesting.” He would not have understood Potter’s allusion but for Lydia. “James seems not so opposed as Mrs. Carleton.”

“She wants a title for her daughter,” said Mrs. Potter with a scornful frown.

“And Elizabeth is so lovely, she may obtain one,” Potter said. Rees nodded. “Will you be at the dinner?”

“Yes. I have a few more questions for the nursemaid and so on.” Rees wished he did not wonder about his old friend’s part in the web of Dugard society.

“I saw Miss Farrell in the wagon with the Bowditch help,” Potter said with a knowing expression. Rees sighed and nodded. “I can’t believe you’re desperate for the few pennies she earns. Or did you send a Christian into the lion’s den?”

“She chose to assist me,” Rees said in an icy tone. “Insisted upon it, in fact. Please tell no one.”

“Of course not,” Potter agreed. “I wouldn’t want to put her in any danger.” He eyed the other man with some disapproval. “But I wonder that you permitted her to do this.”

“If you knew her, you wouldn’t,” Rees said with a snort.

“We women are far more capable than you men believe,” Mrs. Potter said, turning her clever eyes upon her husband. “I’d be interested in hearing how Miss Farrell fares. And what she thinks of Mrs. Bowditch. Ahh, there’s my Sally,” Mrs. Potter’s gaze moved away from the men. “I must get home; I have children to feed.” She nodded politely at Rees, admonished her husband not to stay too long, and darted down the walk toward home.

“I’ll drive with you if I may,” Potter said as David drove up to them. Rees hesitated. He no longer felt completely comfortable with Potter. The moment of silence rapidly became uncomfortable, and Rees nodded reluctantly.

Potter offered Rees an arm up. “How is your gunshot wound doing?” he asked.

Rees moved his arm back and forth experimentally. “It’s still sore but much better. I think I’ll be able to begin driving myself again soon.”

Potter and David exchanged a look. “You don’t want to rush it,” the attorney said, clambering up the step and squeezing into the rear seat. No one suggested the six-foot plus Rees fold himself into the back.

“Exactly,” David muttered as he grasped the reins. The resulting silence was awkward.

“There’s been some vandalism at the smithy,” Potter said. “Branding Augustus as the murderer.”

Rees looked at the lawyer in horror. “But he grew up here,” he protested. “And he’s Nate’s son.”

“Some people will never be able to see beyond skin color,” Potter said regretfully. “It’s human nature. Fortunately, he’s safe for now.”

By the time they reached the Bowditch farm, the front drive and much of the yard were filled with buggies and wagons. No horses, though, and as they came to a stop Fred Salley appeared. “I’ll park the buggy, if you don’t mind,” he said to Rees. “And your cattle’ll be loosed in the paddock with the others.”

Rees nodded and turning to Potter he said, “Go on in. I’ll follow you directly.” The lawyer looked surprised but obeyed. Rees waited until Potter was out of earshot before speaking. “Mr. Salley,” he said, “the evening Master Nate was killed and you walked down through the lay-by to the road, you saw several horses.”

“Richard’s gelding, Marsh’s gray nag, and a chestnut,” Salley said with a nod.

“When we spoke before, you said it could be a farmer’s nag. I wondered if you had discovered who owned it.”

Salley shook his head but the movement stopped abruptly, and Rees realized the hand had thought of something. “Not a farmer’s horse, a gentleman’s.”

“What did he look like? Did you recognize him?”

“Beautiful gelding, white stocking on his back rear foot,” Salley said. “Don’t know who he belongs to.”

Rees remembered seeing a chestnut with a white stocking recently but couldn’t recall where. “One of the gentlemen who played cards with Master Nate?”

“Maybe. They usually arrive after I’ve gone. And not Mr. Hansen, he drives a buggy. Too stout to ride a horse, you know,” he said with a grin. “Not Mr. Potter’s. He rides a bay. Nor Mr. Carleton’s. He rides a wild black stallion called Lucifer. Saw that horse a few times when Mr. Carleton came to visit the master. None of us wanted to go near him.”

“Thank you.” Rees said. Deep in thought, he watched the groom unhitch the horses and lead them away. So, whose chestnut was it in the lay-by that day? Rees would wager his farm that the chestnut’s owner had been in Nate’s cottage. Had that man murdered Nate after Richard struck him and then fled?

After several minutes of thought, Rees filed away his questions and went up the steps into the house. The affluent members of Dugard society congregated in the emerald parlor. Rees hesitated by the door, watching Potter greet the men in a group that included Dr. Wrothman and Piggy Hansen. Now a magistrate, he looked like an older version of the boy Rees recalled: chubby and self-satisfied, his eyes buried in pillows of fat and his small red lips pursed together. But Rees didn’t know most of the others and had no interest in making polite conversation with either Wrothman or Hansen. He slipped around them almost furtively, searching for the widow and her children.

He found both Richard and Grace flanking their mother, Grace pinned to Molly’s side by her mother’s tight grip. The girl’s eyes were still red, her skin was pale, and she looked worn out against her poorly dyed black frock. Richard nodded at Rees, his expression wary.

“Mr. Rees,” Molly said.

“Your father would not want to see you so distraught,” Rees said to Grace, taking her free hand gently into his large freckled paw. She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears.

“Exactly what I told her,” Molly said irritably. “But she insisted upon wearing black. She looks like a crow.” She twitched a fold of the streaky black gown in distaste. Rees suspected Grace had dyed her dress herself, yearning to honor her father with a clear proof of her grief.

“I miss him,” she whispered, looking at Rees from Nate’s blue eyes.

“I know,” Rees said, his own eyes smarting. “I know you do.” He pressed her hand and released it. “I’m looking for Kate.”

“She’s outside with Ben, under the tree—,” she began.

“Why do you need to speak to her?” Richard interrupted indignantly. Rees did not reply. As he walked past the boy, Rees stared intently into Richard’s face until he looked away. But he looked angry rather than ashamed.

Unwilling to run the gamut of the important men, the weaver hurried toward the back door. Jack and Susannah were standing just inside the parlor door; Susannah perched upon the edge of a chair. They looked uncomfortable.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Rees said, coming to a stop.

“We thought we should attend,” Jack said.

“For Nate,” Susannah added.

“Who’s minding the coffeehouse?”

“We don’t open until afternoon on Sundays,” Jack said.

“If we open up at all today,” Susannah said.

Rees looked at Jack for clarification.

“It’s been a struggle since Ruth left,” he said. “Suze is finding the cooking—” He considered and discarded several words. “—difficult.”

“We knew she was stepping out with her young man,” Susannah said. “Caleb Fields, one of the grooms at Wheeler’s.”

“Did you ask him what happened?” Rees asked.

Susannah lifted her shoulder in a ladylike shrug. “He’s disappeared, too.”

“We suspect they ran off together.” Jack did not sound happy. “Now, with Suze doing the cooking, I’m very short in the dining room.”

“We’ll need someone in place by next Saturday,” Susannah said. “We’ll be very busy when the farmers come in for market. Yesterday was horrible without a cook.”

“And there’s always a stage coach Saturday afternoons,” Jack said glumly. “Jack Jr. will have to put in more hours, I suppose.”

“Surely there are other cooks,” Rees said.

“Not like Ruth,” Jack said.

Susannah suddenly leaned forward and said, “We heard a rumor Sam Prentiss attacked David?”

“That’s true,” Rees said. “David came home all bruised and bloody.”

Susannah nodded. “You know he beats his family,” she said.

Rees stared at her, aghast. “Are you sure?” The possibility had never occurred to him.

“He has that right,” Jack said.

“You wouldn’t dare strike me,” Susannah said, casting him an ominous glance.

“And he’s a regular at the Bull,” Jack said, nodding reassuringly at his wife.