No Rest for the Dove (24 page)

“What is it?” Longfellow asked his guest.

“I believe—it is only a cloak pin.”

“I guessed as much, though it’s not mine. But was this stolen from you?
From my own house?
”

“It is not unlike one I once owned while living in Milano,” Signor Lahte replied. He turned away, as if the object was of no further interest. Again Elena spoke to him, but she received only the briefest of answers.

“Where, exactly, was this found?” Longfellow then asked the reverend.

“It was taken up by Caleb Knox, from the body of Sesto Alva as it lay beside the road.”

Now Elena, too, gave a small gasp, before she and her husband traded looks once more. It appeared hers expressed something more than wonder. It also seemed, to Charlotte at least, that Lahte’s eyes held a hard command.

“Only nearby,” Mrs. Knox insisted. “For I’m sure my husband would never think to rob a dead man … but when he gave me such a treasure, I did feel uneasy, and worried whose it
might
have been.”

“But you say it was once yours, Gian Carlo?” asked Longfellow, striving to be perfectly clear.

“Perhaps. Yes, I think that it may have been lost before I left Italy—when, exactly, I did not notice. But now, I suspect Sesto found it in the home of Don Arturo. One does leave cloaks with servants—and Sesto was not always honest, as I have already told you.”

“Well,” Longfellow began, glancing at Elena, only to find that the girl seemed unnerved once more.

To Charlotte, it appeared that her neighbor was carefully weighing Gian Carlo Lahte’s answers, balancing them against other information he recollected, until something in his face changed. At the same time, she asked herself if there might not be another explanation for the stolen pin’s reappearance.

Longfellow reached out and took the gold clasp from Mrs. Knox, who seemed glad to be rid of it. “As an official of the village,” he kindly informed her, “I will take this into my own keeping, with my thanks. And I will do what I should have done several days ago,” he told the others. “We’ll go to Boston tonight, in the cool of the evening, with the moon to light our way. I will speak with a justice of the peace on Friday—Judge Trowbridge in Cambridge,
I think. After he hears what we know, I believe he’ll call for a coroner’s inquest. He might also sign writs for the arrest of Thomas Pomeroy and Don Arturo Alva. The truth must soon come out, as it generally does. But for the good of all, we will help it along.”

Yet as Richard Longfellow studied the faces of those before him, he felt a doubt that the whole truth would be likely to please each and every one.

Thursday, August 22

E
ARLY THE NEXT
morning, Longfellow rode the ferry from Boston to Charlestown, where, upon landing, he took a road that led past wasteland and clay pits to Cambridge.

He found Edmund Trowbridge sitting in an office near the courthouse. Attorney General of the colony for the past fifteen years, Judge Trowbridge no longer represented Cambridge in the Assembly, though he was, currently, a member of the Governor’s Council. But Longfellow knew he might still find time to listen to an old family friend, and to attend certain cases that were to a scholar’s liking.

Trowbridge did agree to hear their evidence the next day, when Longfellow promised to bring back with him several other witnesses: Signor Lahte, his young wife, Captain Montagu, and Joseph Warren—assuming the physician could leave Boston and his practice. While
he heard the story, the judge recognized the name of Caleb Knox, known to him from an earlier case concerning a purloined cow. He also smiled at the mention of Jonathan Pratt, for while riding circuit, he’d made many stops for refreshment at the Bracebridge Inn. He even chuckled as he anticipated a fit challenge for his disciplined brain—something beyond the pecuniary squabblings on which he was most often asked to focus his attention.

And so, Longfellow returned victorious across the broad mouth of the Charles. Once the ferry had docked on the Boston side, he remounted and rode up to his house on Sudbury Street.

The place looked well, he thought as he examined its brick front by day—except for a few cracks left by the memorable shaking of the earth ten years before, which could hardly be helped. Situated between the Mill Pond and Beacon Hill, the comfortable structure his widowed stepmother continued to inhabit had the advantage of a large garden behind, part of an enclosed triangle completed by Hannover Street and Cold Lane; there was also a livery stable handy at the far side. And it was only a short walk to the Green Dragon … a matter of further convenience. All in all, the property was sensibly placed, neither across Mill Creek in the crowded North End, nor too close by the center of Crown activity between Long Wharf and the Common. One could do far worse, choosing from the town’s two thousand assorted dwellings these days.

He left Venus at the stable, and walked across sod and garden to the back of his house. Inside, he was met by the two servants who remained in the absence of their mistress. They had long ago learned to expect odd things from friends of Miss Longfellow—now, Mrs. Montagu—but this foreign couple that came with her
brother was something else again, their anxious faces seemed to complain.

“How are the ladies?” Longfellow asked. Hephzibah and Rachel exchanged knowing glances, before the elder answered.

“We made a bath for them each in their rooms, from the outside kettle,” said Hephzibah.

The dumbwaiter he’d fashioned the previous year would have made their work less difficult, he supposed. Still, it would have been no pleasure, in this sultry weather, to fetch water from the central well, heat it, and haul it to the side of the house. He greatly preferred the system he’d designed for his own home in Bracebridge, where a hand pump moved water from an enclosed boiler next to the cellar’s cistern, sending it to each of the upper floors.

“They are now on the high porch with the gentleman,” Rachel added, “where there is a breeze. Would you want some refreshment brought up, sir?”

“Not just yet. I may find something else to do before long.”

“Captain Montagu has called and gone away again, but said to tell you he will soon return,” said Hephzibah.

“Then bring up a bottle of currant wine from the cellar after all,” Longfellow decided.

“Do you know, sir, that your own servant has left us this morning, to attend to some private business in the town?”

“I suggested it.” Longfellow knew Cicero was in an awkward position; the old man was now only a sort of valet in a house where he’d once reigned nearly supreme. It had been a small act of mercy to send him off.

Hephzibah gave a sad smile, shook her head at life in general, and took herself after Rachel down the kitchen stairs.

Longfellow climbed to the floor above to find Gian Carlo Lahte seated with Elena, Diana, and Charlotte, all of them lounging comfortably on the large open porch, propped by pillows as they watched the slow movements of ships in the harbor.

“I see you’ve organized something like a seraglio,” Longfellow commented to Lahte, meaning it in jest. He then reddened, as he recalled the traditional protectors of such places. “Yet not quite a paradise, after all. Don’t trust the water in town, Lahte, no matter where it comes from—my own well not excepted. We all know the reason they sometimes stink, but it’s beyond our powers to keep them perfectly clean. Wine is safer. Or perhaps you might care to walk out for a tankard of ale?”

“I am sure I would enjoy it later,” the musico returned, “but now, I am hearing of the ladies and gentlemen of Boston from your sister, who kindly instructs me.”

“No doubt you’ll both be glad to hear I’ve sent a message to the lieutenant governor. You and I have an audience with him this afternoon.”

“Richard,” asked Charlotte, “will you tell Lem we’ve arrived, as well? I hope he can find time to call.”

“He will, if I have anything to do with it,” Longfellow assured her. “We can see what knowledge he’s picked up in the metropolis—which I suppose will need knocking out of him again, as soon as he goes home.”

It was then that Hephzibah reappeared with a welcome message.

“Sir, Captain Montagu is below.”

“WHOSE PISTOL WAS
it?” Edmund Montagu asked, cautiously sipping a glass of currant wine as he sat with Richard Longfellow.

“According to Jonathan, Pomeroy took it from a guest who left it in his room. Though how Pomeroy knew of it no one can say, for the man swears he left it deep in a trunk.”

“That does suggest—” The captain paused to speculate. “At any rate,” he soon continued, “Thomas Pomeroy will now be fleeing from his former friends, on shank’s mare if he has no other. Has he funds of his own, do you know?”

“Jonathan gave him a purse of gold coins only yesterday morning, in exchange for a diamond Pomeroy claims he brought with him from England.” Longfellow went on with the story until Montagu held up a hand.

“I’ll look into this further, Richard, before we see Trowbridge tomorrow. I had one of the sketches of Sesto Alva shown about again, with the addition of his cousin’s scar—but so far it has not yielded any results.”

“Did you see Dr. Warren?”

Montagu then revealed most of what he had learned two nights before, while at the Green Dragon.

“Then it’s still uncertain how Sesto Alva died. That is irritating.”

“I agree. But was murder ever simply done, or discovered?”

“Cain was easily found….”

“Unfortunately, neither of us is omniscient, Richard. Although I do have a pair of new assistants who may be better at this job than you, or even I.” Captain Montagu then described the recent arrival of two ‘thief-takers’ from London, whose business it was to apprehend accused criminals for the law. “These men,” Montagu concluded, “can think as a low, criminal mind will … and one day, I suppose, they will be hung for crimes of their own. Unfortunately, those of good character are rarely welcome in their ranks. Still, we may as well benefit from such talents when we can.”

“Perhaps now that they are out of London, our more pious ways will improve them.”

“I see your mood is playful today.”

“If it is, it’s because I’m avoiding my responsibility. I have yet to tell Lahte he may choose to have an attorney present, when he’s examined,” said Longfellow, his face clouding.

“Do you think one is necessary?” returned the captain.

“Perhaps not, yet. But it does begin to look as if Lahte is something more than a victim in this affair. If he himself dropped his clasp at the scene, and if someone else should come forward who saw them together on the road—then I wonder what the law will say. It may be forced to try him.”

“If Lahte repeats under oath that he is innocent, he should be believed. After all, he’s a man of some standing.”

“But if we believe Lahte—if we believe Sesto Alva took the clasp from him while they were both still in Milan—then why would Alva wear the thing on his way to meet the very man from whom he stole it? That makes little sense to me.”

“Possibly he’d decided to give it back. I have learned,” the captain continued on another front, “that you and Il Colombo propose to visit Hutchinson this afternoon.”