No Rest for the Dove (22 page)

He looked around at the collection of men, and assorted women—serving maids, two traveling ladies who had arrived late to avoid the day’s heat, and a few hearty local women, seemingly unmarried friends of other drinkers. Some ate, some drank, many read newspapers, a few played at whist and tiles. There were also, he saw with no surprise, some whose pastimes were arguably less innocent—men he knew, crowded into a corner around a collection of small tables.

There was Revere, the silversmith, red-cheeked and wide, with a sharp eye for all that went on around him. Tonight, he sat at the side of Joseph Warren. The physician’s light blue eyes continued to leap about as he leaned toward a friend as yet unknown to Montagu, his lips near the fellow’s ear. Next to Warren, with his back turned … that had to be the elder Adams, the ringleader himself. There was no mistaking his palsy as he raised a hand in assent to something said at the next table, then brought it down hard, causing his cup to dance. The heat had made the poor fellow’s hair and coat
even less tidy than usual, Edmund decided before his eyes moved on.

At another table hunched Will Molineux, the Irishman at the center of much of what had lately been reported to Town House. It seemed a bad omen for him to be here among many men of St. Andrew’s Lodge, for by habit he should have been with his Liberty Boys at the nearby distillery, instructing them in how to brew sedition. And quite possibly, how to make off with someone’s purse. Molineux sat with a strange smile, listening to a man who appeared, by his garb, to be newly arrived from London. This tender soul had dressed himself up as a macaroni complete with velvet suit, and lengths of loose curls under a feathered hat. The effect was rather like Signor Lahte’s, the captain supposed, though it was somehow less successful in such a callow version. Ah, well. At least it was a relief from the more dangerous sort now all too common in London—those of Clive’s pack glittering in gold lace, with the gems of India sewn onto their clothing, often followed by a pack of tinseled, pinchbeck imitators. Yet was there something more to be seen here …?

Montagu walked around for a better view of the man’s face, and was rewarded with a blank look. It was Ian Whately, by God! The captain forced a cruel smile, causing the other to look away in disgust, after he’d raised a small looking lens to an arrogant eye.

Whately again spoke loudly of the libertine John Wilkes, a gaming friend of days gone by—before that firebrand’s expulsion from Parliament, and from England. Certainly an acquaintance with a well-known enemy of the King’s party would please the local nabobs, who would no doubt grow to enjoy this fop, after they’d had their fun with his costume and manner. Let them laugh, as they persuaded him to become more like themselves—something
he would be glad to do, by degrees. Eventually, they might even ask him to join their lodge. And then, Ian could relay conversations of great interest, when he slipped away to join his true friends at Town House. All in all, the disguise seemed well done—if the ‘peeper’ was a bit much.

But what was happening tonight to draw such a collection of men not usually seen this late together, at least in public? Something the Crown should know about, surely. Was more trouble in the works? Montagu was again thankful that Diana, and their future child, were safely tucked away in the country.

One face the captain did not see in the crowd was that of Don Arturo Alva. He would have to seek out the landlord and again show him the sketch—a close copy of the one Longfellow had made. But first, Montagu decided to spend a moment on more subversive matters. Give them their Liberty, he thought as he moved closer to the knot of seated men. Give them enough rope—

To the captain’s surprise, he now recognized a youth sitting at Dr. Warren’s table. He hoped this one would not be overcome, one day, by their studied madness! Such company could only prove a goad and a threat to a boy unfamiliar with the town. And should the worst happen to Lem Wainwright, what would he ever say to Mrs. Willett?

By moving a little, Montagu was able to stare Lem full in the face, which brought their eyes together. Did the boy seem upset to see him? Was he guilty for what he had done, or planned to do, with these men? No! Happily, it seemed to him that Lem’s honest face showed only pleasure. In another moment, both had begun to smile.

“Ho, Captain!” called Paul Revere, raising an engraved pewter tankard from his own shop in greeting. “What has brought you away from your bride at this hour? And is Mrs. Montagu well, sir?”

“Exceedingly well, thank you,” Montagu returned, walking closer. “She enjoys the country air.”

“A good thing! Is the silver frame I made for your miniature still to her liking?”

“It is as good a one as she has ever seen, she tells me. It is also her constant companion, whenever I am unable to be with her.”

“Let us hope that will not be for long,” said Sam Adams, “for family is the glue that holds the world together … as my own wife now tells me.”

“Indeed, sir. I hear you’ve recently gained a surprising number of Sons, who follow in your footsteps.”

“Of many mothers, I do admit—but all joined by a similar desire,” Adams replied seriously, to chuckles from those around them.

The captain changed his focus. “Mr. Wainwright, have you yet mastered your Latin and your Greek?”

“I confess I haven’t, Captain,” Lem replied, standing. “And I’m now told I have more to learn than I’d supposed. In fact, several gentlemen have offered to tutor me.”

“Though I believe it is Mr. Longfellow who paid your bond to the college, and he who sponsors you?”

“Yes, sir. For which I often praise him.”

“We only wish, Captain, that Mr. Longfellow were less busy in the country, so that he might visit us as often as do
you
,” said Sam Adams, with a gentle smile that hid well-known steel.

“I suppose you have already heard, Mr. Adams, that our friend has a subject of unusual interest to study at the moment. Dr. Warren must have told you of his own visit to Bracebridge last week?”

Several heads turned Warren’s way, but on that matter, apparently, the physician had held his tongue.

“In fact, Dr. Warren is one of two men I’ve come here
to find tonight. Might I ask you, sir, a few questions concerning your recent medical observations?”

Nodding, Dr. Warren rose quickly and led Captain Montagu to an alcove away from the rest.

“I will only keep you a moment, Doctor, as I’m aware that I intrude on something … but tell me, if you will, what you’ve made of this fellow Mr. Longfellow says you carted off to Dorchester, now known to us as an Italian named Sesto Alva. Please hold nothing back, for I believe your information may well affect the safety of our friends in Bracebridge.”

Warren looked closely into the face of his inquisitor. What he saw convinced him to speak freely.

“As a physician, I will tell you that one idea, at least, can be discounted. The man’s lungs were clear; he did not choke. Instead, inside this Alva, as you name him, I found several bleeding ulcerations. Some others seemed to have hardened into scars. His stomach was surely affected by a malady, and for some time. What that was, I cannot be sure—a chronic illness, perhaps. All I can say with certainty is that his death was not the result of a moment’s evil on an entirely healthy body. Still, he
could
have consumed poison that day, as I suggested to Longfellow—for the sores in his mouth were severe, and may well have increased as a caustic material sat in it, after death….”

“You cannot rule out murder, then.”

“I cannot. There was also a blow to the skull, as I suppose you’ve heard.”

“Made in anger, do you think?”

“Possibly; perhaps only the result of a fall. But this in itself seems unlikely to have killed the man, given the circumstances. Still, it
is
there.”

“So. Medical science can help us little … and we are forced to renew our search among the living.”

“Which takes us from my strength, back to yours.”

Neither spoke for a moment; the discussion seemed concluded.

“What is your feeling about the new revenue stamps, Doctor?” the captain asked abruptly. This time, Warren was quick with an impassioned answer.

“While we agree that the death of one man must be counted as a thing of importance, your stamps threaten the
rights, liberty, and property of many thousands
—most of whom see these possessions as more precious, more worth guarding, than life itself!”

“Will you then encourage the mob to hang not an effigy but a man, when it next feels a need to protect such things?”

Warren smiled and bowed slightly, backing away. “In Boston,” he replied, “I know only citizens who wish to keep their homes and families from harm.”

“To do this, Doctor, they begin by destroying the peace and security, even the homes, of Crown officials. But let us hope a taste was enough to warn all men of the poisonous effect of such actions!”

There seemed little more to say, and with a swift acknowledgment, they parted.

After that, Edmund Montagu made his way to the tavern keeper to inquire about the sighting of a doppelgänger the week before. The busy man pointed out a girl who had served that evening; tonight, too, she was occupied with fetching orders. This time Montagu took a protesting subject by an arm, and led her into the alcove he’d earlier occupied with Dr. Warren.

“This man,” he said, again taking the drawing from his coat. “Do you remember seeing him?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” the pert and pretty girl replied, standing still at last. “I remember
both
of them. Very alike they were, when I saw them together.”

“What day was this?”

“Wednesday last,” the girl replied.

“I’ve already heard they had much the same appearance … but can you recall anything
different
about one or the other?”

“Different? Well, sir, apart from quite a nasty scar on the side of his face, the one who came in second that night did seem better cared for … and he tried to order in French, on the first day I saw him.
Biftek
, as they say, and
vin
for wine. I thought he must be down from Québec. The other, who may have been a poorer brother, spoke queerly too, though his few words to me were in English. He asked for a bowl of bread and milk with his ale. That was on the night the two of them met, before the second gentleman arrived.”

“But you say you saw both men before last Wednesday?”

“The one I called the poor brother came in a day or two earlier, had a little soup and some cheese, and then took more off with him. It seemed to me he had an attack of indigestion, but when I asked if he was ill, he only waved me away. I worried he might have a touch of the summer complaint. But he certainly did not come by it from eating our food, sir!”

“And the other? He came to eat?”

“He sat and had his dinner another day, as well.”

“So each came in alone, before; but this time, they met by accident?”

“It seemed so—yes, sir. Both did look quite surprised!”

“Did they appear to be on friendly terms?”

“No,” the girl answered, “they did not, though for a few moments they sat together, talking quietly.”

“And how did they leave?”

“I saw the one who was ill go out the back, toward the little house behind. Then, I heard the other exclaim. He rose as well, threw a coin onto the table, and rushed off in
the same direction. That was the last I saw of either one. Was there some trouble, sir, between them?”

“It looks that way….” Captain Montagu replied. He then let the girl go to see to her customers, watching as she melted into the welcoming crowd. He thought again of what Dr. Warren had told him, and of the lingering illness of a man soon to die. Then, to no one in particular, Montagu added, “but the real question is, for how long …?”

Wednesday, August 21