No Rest for the Dove (27 page)

“To me, he was a stranger.”

“Signor Lahte … when you married your wife, did you not suppose her father had other plans for her?”

“Yes, certainly. But Elena had no wish to give herself to the man chosen for her by her father. I, of course, could not go to Don Arturo—for I knew I would not be accepted.”

“If her father ever does come forward, do you believe he will relent, and forgive either one of you?”

“That, I cannot tell. I do know if I had raised such a child myself, I could not bear to see her sold against her will!”

“Possibly not, and perhaps you’re right. But to obey the law, we must often curb our sentiments. I warn you—the ill will of your wife’s father might still bring about your end. Be cautious as you walk, sir!” Trowbridge looked keenly at the Italian, who returned his stare. Finally the older man sighed, and went on.

“However, as this is a Coroner’s Inquest, let us summon
the examining physician at long last, and hear his story. I suppose we will all find it interesting. Dr. Warren, if you please.”

Joseph Warren came to the box with a smile for the jury, some of whom grinned back, glad to see a familiar face. Trowbridge remained grave as he studied the confident man before him.

“You have waited a long while to make a small report,” he pointed out, holding a single sheet up in his hand, and setting it down again.

“I have brought a broader statement with me this morning, your honor,” said Dr. Warren. He held up several sheets of his own, taken from his coat. “Which I will summarize, if you would like, sir.”

“I think that would be a good idea,” said the judge. The coroner, his lips tightened at the physician’s easy demeanor, nodded his own agreement.

“I was recently summoned by Mr. Richard Longfellow, a selectman of Bracebridge,” the doctor began, “to examine the body of Sesto Alva.”

“The date?” the coroner asked.

“I received his letter late on the sixteenth, and arrived on the next evening. What most thought an accident was supposed, by one or two in that village, to be a more complicated matter. I was taken to a cellar to examine the remains; there I found what I expected to see—a depression in the man’s skull, above and behind the right ear. There was, however, no apparent swelling. Nor was there lividity under the hair. I immediately laid back a section of the scalp, and found little evidence of extravasated blood. By this observation, I concluded that the man died very soon after his head was struck by a hard and rounded object—possibly a rock. Perhaps even before,” the physician added, his attention seemingly caught by a new idea.

“Struck once, or more?” asked the judge.

“Perhaps only once—I can’t be sure. The injury occurred a day before I saw him.”

“Had you no further thoughts?” the coroner demanded.

“My next concern was the yellow fever—”

A murmur of alarm rose from the room; each summer, fears of fresh epidemics ebbed and flowed over all the colonies.

“—due to the obvious presence of dark vomit on the man’s coat and shirt. Yet when I opened the mouth and examined it carefully, I found it oddly irritated, as if by some corrosive agent. There was a marked hemorrhaging in the tissues of the mouth and esophagus, which I’d seen before in cases of poisoning. To be perfectly sure—and with a view to the public’s safety, on the chance I was wrong—I arranged to take the corpse away, so that no other person might become contaminated. Eventually, I saw it safely buried in Dorchester.”

“Eventually,” Trowbridge replied dryly, keeping to himself thoughts of overcurious physicians with ready scalpels.

“Was the damage to the mouth and throat, sir,” asked the coroner with greater interest, “due to one severe episode, or was this a case of long suffering?”

“I suspect his malady was chronic, sir … and yet, the final damage seemed to imply that if an irritant was present, it was last taken in a very strong dose—certainly one I would imagine large enough to cause great discomfort, and the loss of his stomach.”

“You give us detail, but your considered opinion gives us little help here,” Judge Trowbridge returned testily. “Which was it? Pitched onto a rock, pummeled, or poisoned? Have you even reached a decision as to whether this was an accident, or something more?”

“No,” Warren admitted, his smile almost contrite.
“Though I cannot, as I’ve said, believe the death
entirely
the result of a fall from a horse….”

Mrs. Willett, who had been listening carefully, sat up with even keener attention. Might Dr. Warren now say something more about the neck? For it had seemed undamaged to her, when she felt it. And didn’t most who died so soon after suffering such a fall have some part of their spines broken?

“I would ask you further, sir—” Trowbridge began again. But before more could be said, a fresh sound of bustling came from the back of the room, in answer to a commotion outside. The doors were then flung open to reveal several men jostling, as two of them half-shoved and half-carried a third in between them. Edmund Montagu leaped to his feet and hurried down the center aisle to confer with the pair of captors, who held a young man between them.

Several on the frontmost seats recognized Thomas Pomeroy, though his head was bowed as he fought … not, perhaps, with a hope of attaining his freedom, but to make a show of his anger. Upon seeing Captain Montagu the boy seemed to change, and stood more quietly. Yet in response to a new blow, he soon lashed out again.

“What is all this?” asked the judge. When no answer was forthcoming, he stood and slapped down a book lifted from the bench before him.
“What is going on?”

“Your honor,” Montagu called, turning toward the magistrate, “if you will allow me a moment with these men, I will relate something that should have great bearing on many of the questions before the court.” As he finished, another flurry broke out—this time, at the front of the room. With no warning, Signora Lahte had fainted.

A call for sherry sent a quick-witted boy running off to
a nearby tavern. Meanwhile, Charlotte and Gian Carlo Lahte knelt to hold the motionless body of Elena between them. Richard Longfellow looked to his sister, fearing that this new tumult might have caused her some distress as well. In fact, it had—for Diana, who had often been the object of such attentions, felt little pleasure when another suffered the effects of unbearable emotion. However, she soon found a more charitable sentiment as she remembered that the girl’s nerves must have been long and truly strained by her peculiar situation.

“These two men,” said Montagu, striding back toward the judge and the coroner, “are in my employ. Having learned from me that Thomas Pomeroy was sought by the Crown, they were directed to search the wharves for information on recent arrivals … information of a particular kind. After broadcasting word of what they soon learned, they found the boy, hidden by a cart-wright whom he has obviously misled. For Thomas Pomeroy is actually one Matthew Beaulieu, lately brought here from London on the ship
Swallow
as a transported felon, who escaped a guard responsible for several others like him. From that man, we know Beaulieu is a thief of long habit, recently given the choice of working in this colony for seven years, or staying in London to be hanged!”

Thomas Pomeroy had now been dragged to stand in front of the judge; yet his attention was drawn to the activity that still revolved around Signora Lahte.

“What have you to say for yourself, young man?” Trowbridge asked. “Are you this Matthew Beaulieu, as well as Thomas Pomeroy?”

The boy wrenched free an arm, so that he might point in the direction of Gian Carlo Lahte.

“
I saw him
, there on the road—I saw him with the
dead man that afternoon!
He held a rock
—and I told her he was the one who must have killed Sesto Alva—her husband, the musico!”

“And the diamond, boy? What of the diamond? How did you, arriving here with no more than your shirt, manage to come by that?”

“It was mine!”

“We have a good amount of gold coin here, as well,” said one of the thief-takers in a deep, pleased voice, “which we found on him.” He took from the pocket of his long coat a soiled linen purse, half full, and set it on the bench.

“I see,” said Trowbridge, frowning anew as he looked inside. “One thing is clear. This man’s oath, be he Pomeroy or Beaulieu, is worthless. As a felon, his words may not be considered by a jury. I suspect that his claims may even persuade us of his guilt, as he appears to hope he can cause another to pay for his own wrongdoing. Take him to the jail. Later, I will speak with him, and ask him to explain his recent attack on Signor Lahte.”

“No!”
Pomeroy screamed as they dragged him back down the aisle. “It was only to frighten him! It was all the fault of her father—you must believe me—
please—please!
”

Thomas Pomeroy was then hauled, still screaming, out of the courtroom, and the doors were slammed shut to the relief of all inside. Edmund Montagu moved to speak with his wife, but encountered her brother first.

“What was it that made you suspect?” Longfellow asked eagerly.

“The pistol, of course. You said he found it hidden in the room of a man he did not know. That suggested to me more than a passing interest in crime.”

“But how is it that his earlier escape was unknown to you?”

“There are several ways for a man to be lost, while crossing the ocean. Beaulieu was reported drowned. I think he may have been clever enough to spin out promises of future reward, which convinced his jailer to look the other way as he walked off. Or, quite possibly, Don Arturo Alva sought out just such a lad to do his business, and paid his keeper for him at the wharf when they landed. We’ll know soon enough—they rarely keep silent for long about such things, once they’re carefully questioned. But now, I must go and see to my wife.”

Longfellow stepped aside, then made his way to the judges’ bench where Trowbridge sat shaking his head.

“Hutchinson shall have all of it, with Lynde and Oliver, as soon as they sit. Quite a spectacle, Mr. Longfellow! I cannot say I am entirely sorry. But I pray you will not lay such a thing at my feet again any time soon.”

“I hope not, sir,” Longfellow answered sincerely.

“But here—take this to your friend Mr. Pratt,” the magistrate instructed, picking up the bag of gold, “and have him count it. By rights it is his, in payment for the diamond.
That
I would be glad to see you slip quietly into your pocket, to keep until it is again called for—only give a receipt to the clerk before you go. It is not that I do not trust our fellows here, but it is sometimes difficult to keep things so small from falling through cracks.”

“What do you think of my guest’s position?” Longfellow asked, his voice lowered.

“I think that a man of Lahte’s standing need not worry. His life has been unusual, to say the least—and it is one I hardly envy. I believe we have heard enough to keep him out of custody. Yet I can’t help thinking Massachusetts would be a calmer place if he were to move on. Is that likely, Richard?”

“Il Colombo may well fly, as soon as he sings for us
a final time. If you would care to hear him, I’ll send you an invitation.”

“Lately I find I am much occupied, with one thing and another.”

“In that case I will see you another time, sir—though I, too, hope it is not in court.”

His only answer was a surprising wink, and a nod. Judge Trowbridge rose with a glance around the room, which showed him most of it was already on its feet. Then, he went unnoticed into his chambers.

Monday, August 26