Weak Flesh (16 page)

He'd been scared too, but not of the hurricanes that had ripped the coast that year. He'd been frightened and eager and puzzled to be heading off for West Point the next week. Proud he was following in his father's and grandfather's footsteps. Afraid he wouldn't measure up.

Gage stood and eased around the desk. Bailey automatically took the chair he'd just vacated.

"And look, Gage," she said, drawing his attention back to the note. "Here are the initials N.O. They must represent Ned Osborne. Surely that means something, don't you think?"

She looked up at him then, all wide-eyed innocence. He set his jaw in a firm, hard line and reached across the desk to take the dance card and the note from her, knowing his irritation was less with her than with himself. Annoyed that he'd reacted to her momentary fragile beauty.

"You can't work on this anymore, Bailey," he said, refusing to meet her eyes. He couldn't continue working this closely to her, he thought.

"That's ridiculous. Why not?"

"Damn it, Meghan! You've got to stop being an infernal busybody." He swiped his hand over his shaggy hair. "I don't need your help. You're a civilian." He glowered. "Now go off and do your teaching and leave my business alone."

His voice had crept up in volume as he spoke and by the time he'd finished, he could see that his words had effected a change in her. She paled a little and stared at him, a hurt look on her face.

"All right," she said slowly, pushing back the desk chair as she arose. "I – I'll just – go back to the schoolhouse." She reached the door near where he stood and put her hand on the knob, giving a small laugh. "Goodness knows I've plenty of work to do there."

She ducked her head and said, "Goodbye, Tucker," and then quietly closed the door behind her when she left.

Christ Jesus, he'd wounded her.
If she were merely angry with him, she'd have slammed the door with a bang. He'd hurt her and Bailey deserved far better than such treatment.

#

Meghan walked in a daze down Main Street toward the schoolhouse, unlocked the door, and sat in the cold classroom for a long time. She'd made him furious. No wonder he wouldn't let her work with him. She was too pushy by far, bold, meddlesome, and often abrasive. She knew these things about herself and tried to get her enthusiasm under control, but ...

She'd been about to tell him her suspicions regarding Mr. Carver, but she certainly couldn't do that now. Even though she was embarrassed to broach such a delicate topic, she'd felt she had to if it related to Nell's death. As open as she and her father were, she wasn't sure she could speak to him of it.

And now, of course, Gage had forbad her to work on the case at all. Anything she suggested about Mr. Carver would certainly be viewed as further interference. Gage didn't need her, and the sting of that realization hurt more than it should. More than she wanted to acknowledge.

After spending an hour in her classroom, preparing lessons for after the holiday recess and tidying up, too tired for the walk home, she hailed a hansom cab. By then she'd devised a course of action for more sleuthing, whom she'd visit, and why.

She had no intention of ceasing work on the case, but she didn't want to rile Gage. Her plans were mere visits to community members.

By the time she arrived home, the tear streaks on her cheek hardly showed at all.

Chapter 18

Visiting the Reverend Jolly and his sickly wife was Meghan's way of paying penance for her frequent criticism of the pastor's exceedingly dry sermons. If God had searched for a more burdensome act of contrition than taking a freshly baked cobbler to the ailing woman and sitting with her for a wearisome two hours, apparently in His infinite wisdom He had not found one.

Quite plainly Meghan was not a baker and made no pretense of such skills. She and her father ate simple fare and neither had a sweet tooth. Sometimes she blamed her dear, departed mother who'd left her before inculcating her only child with the finer secrets of culinary skills.

But in moments of blazing self honesty, Meghan admitted that even the most saintly of mothers would've been hard put to teach her how to make meltingly tender cobbler crust. Ah, well, she thought, and added a dash more of sugar and cinnamon to make up for the tough crust.

In this attempt at charitable duty, Meghan had another purpose in mind. She'd suddenly recalled that in the week or so before her disappearance Nell had visited the Jolly home almost daily.

Busy with the schoolhouse and Thanksgiving preparations, Meghan had paid little attention at the time, but now she wondered about her friend's behavior. Disliking the Reverend as much as Meghan did, why had Nell spent so much time at his home?

Neither girl resented Mrs. Jolly at all. Although colorless and lackluster, the woman possessed a sweetness of spirit and genuine concern that made Meghan wonder if it might've been she rather than the Reverend whom Nell visited so frequently. Mrs. Jolly's infinite kindness nearly made up for the abrasive arrogance of her husband.

No, Mrs. Jolly wasn't the problem. It was the Reverend himself who discombobulated Meg. He hovered, much like an aging spinster. Clad consistently in black suits, tall and thin like a bird of prey, he wore a solemn expression on his dour face as if he found nothing lovely or lively in the world.

During Meghan's visit, he remained in his wife's bedchamber, expressing an opinion on every subject and generally dominating the entire afternoon. Truly, it was with a much justified sigh of relief that Meghan ended the visit.

Not only had her sojourn been an exercise in tedium, she'd learned nothing of interest that might help in the case. Nor had she the courage to ask about Nell's visits with the Reverend so buzzard-like in his attendance on his wife.

However, when Meghan reached the end of the path and unlatched the gate on the Jolly's fence, she heard the Reverend's voice.

"Miss Bailey, wait!" He trotted after her, his crane-like legs bounding awkwardly down the lane. "Wait," he screeched. "There's something else."

#

The Chippewa Brave was less wise than courageous or he wouldn't have charged Tucker Gage while both were astride their mounts. The Brave rode bareback and fell easily.

Gage dropped the Springfield as his foot stuck in the stirrup. He thought he'd likely be dragged to death, but he reached for his Bowie to cut the straps and it, too, slipped from his grasp, leaving him weaponless.

Both men ended up scrabbling in the Minnesota dust, each grappling to incapacitate the other in the vicious hand-to-hand combat. Finally riding his back, the Brave slammed Tucker's head against a rock. Blood pooled in his eyes and blinded him as he bucked the Brave off.

While Tucker swiped at his eyes, the Chippewa took advantage of the momentary handicap.The Brave's knife struck between his shoulder blades, a sharp sting that drove him to his knees, the weapon still in his back.

While he crouched on all fours, he groped over his shoulder and jerked it out, feeling the gush of his own hot, wet blood. Another blow angled sideways into his ribs and sent him toppling onto his back while his slippery fingers lost purchase on the knife handle.

It skittered on the hard dirt just out of his reach.

The Brave straddled him, pummeling his face and shoulders with fists that felt like meat cleavers. Tucker heard the crack of his nose and felt the pain in his jaw sear upwards toward his brain.

The Chippewa Brave seemed fueled by a ferocious anger that poured from his fists and arms and escaped his lips in blood-curdling screams. Tucker felt the man lean forward, scrabble with eager fingers for the knife that'd been lost in the dust.

Momentarily paralyzed, numb with pain, Tucker thought of his mother and father, his friends at West Point. He had a painful picture of the Chippewa woman who'd been murdered by Captain Butler five years ago.

The Army had sewn the wind and Tucker now reaped the whirlwind, he thought as all fight ebbed out of him and he anticipated the death blow.

#

When Reverend Jolly caught up with Meghan, he towered over her, his bony fingers clutching at her coat sleeve. She took an involuntary step backward.

Her voice was sharper than was polite, but she didn't care. "What?" she demanded.

"My wif – Mrs. Jolly wishes to say something else to you." The Reverend's eyes were black marbles in his gaunt face.

"I – I must get home," Meghan faltered. "What does she want with me?"

He shook his head and pulled at his fleshy lower lip, his eyes sliding away from hers. "She says it's important."

Was this some sort of trick, Meghan wondered? Did Jolly think to lure her back into the house for something more nefarious than talking to his wife?

She gave herself a hard, mental shake.
Ridiculous!
How fanciful of her to look for shadows where there were none. Although she disliked him, she had no reason to think of Jolly as anything but a good, Christian man.

Still, she followed him cautiously back into the modest house where he ushered her into Mrs. Jolly's bedroom. To Meghan's surprise, he closed the door firmly behind him, leaving her alone with his wife.

Had he been concerned about what Mrs. Jolly might reveal? If so, why had he changed his mind? Perhaps Mrs. Jolly had more influence over her husband than Meg had supposed.

The ill woman turned hollow eyes towards Meghan, but otherwise didn't move.

"Reverend Jolly said you wished to see me again," Meghan whispered, taking a chair and drawing it close to the bed.

The dark solemnity of the room urged her to speak quietly as if an unseen person might overhear their conversation.

The woman's eyes fluttered closed. After a long moment, she inhaled a deep breath and sighed it out on a shudder. "I – I saw something," she murmured so softly that Meghan had to lean closer, her ear to the woman's chapped lips.

"You saw something?"

"Something terrible."

A thrill of panic, tinged with fear and excitement rubbed against Meghan's nerves. "What? What do you mean? What did you see?"

"At the edge of the – the Swamp. I saw something."

Meghan tried to tamp down her eagerness. "When?"

"Months ago. A man, a man and – and a woman, I think. Struggling with one another."

Her breath panted out with laborious effort. Her brittle voice rattled like old bones.

Meghan held her breath, afraid to comment, afraid Mrs. Jolly would stop speaking.

"The man was very angry," the sick woman continued. "He shook the woman. He – he hit her. Hard with the back of his hand." She drew in a deep, shaky breath. "He carried something long and – and heavy, a shovel, I think."

Meghan placed her hand over the fists clutched at the woman's breast, held her breath, and waited.

A single tear trickled down Mrs. Jolly's cheek as she squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away. "I ran. Oh, God help me, I ran."

Like choking fog, silence hung in the fetid room for long moments. In spite of the chilly winter day, the air was muggy and thick with their labored breathing.

"Did you recognize the man or the woman?" Meghan asked at last.

Mrs. Jolly hesitated, then shook her head, all strength gone out of her. Sweat plastered her hair to her temples and her long, thin fingers escaped Meghan's hold and plucked uselessly at the blanket covering her.

"A shape or size?"

Mrs. Jolly wheezed out the words. "No, no."

"Color of flesh? Clothing?" Meghan pressed. With each question, the woman merely shook her head and grew more agitated.

Meghan decided she might never have another chance to question Mrs. Jolly about Nell. "I must ask you something rather private, ma'am. I hope you do not mind."

A slight shake of her head was the woman's only response. Was that an assent or a protest, Meghan wondered?

But she plunged on. "Nell Carver visited you and the Reverend quite often right before she disappeared. Do you remember that?"

Mrs. Jolly nodded.

"Can you tell me why?"

Mrs. Jolly's dark eyes brightened momentarily, her thin eyebrows lifted, and Meghan had the feeling that she'd been surprised by the question.

"Why did Nell visit you?" Meghan repeated.

The ill woman opened her mouth to answer and then clamped the lips shut. Her eyes widened as if a troubling piece had just fitted into a giant puzzle. After several moments of changing expressions flitting across her face, she closed her eyes.

"Tell me why!" Meghan heard the shrill command in her voice as she clenched her fists to keep from giving the woman a shake.

With her eyes still closed Mrs. Jolly waved a weak hand toward the door and sank deeper into the pillow. "I'm tired now, dear. I don't remember Nell coming around at that time. Not at all. You must be mistaken."

There was nothing to do but leave. Meghan stood on the cottage path and tugged on her gloves. Thank God, she hadn't seen the Reverend as she made her escape down the dark hallway, past the sitting room to the entry.

Pondering the quixotic nature of both Mrs. Jolly and her husband, Meghan wrapped her coat tightly around her and faced the now darkening night. She'd made her way past the gate when the Reverend once again loomed from the shadowy mists and blocked her way.

"What did she say?" he barked. "What did she tell you?"

Although he was as whipcord thin as a scarecrow, Meghan felt a jiggle of apprehension

"We spoke in confidence, Reverend Jolly," she answered with starch in her voice. "You'll have to ask your wife."

She made to go around him, but he stepped sideways.

"Don't be a dimwitted chit," he exclaimed. "I want to know what she spoke to you about!"

Meghan set her jaw and took a half step backward. A maniacal glint sparked Jolly's eyes. Could she outrun him? Not likely.

She pushed her arm outward, palm flat against his bony chest. The contact even through their clothing chilled her. She fancied his heart thumped in his chest like something fierce trying to get out.