A Mischief in the Snow Part 7

"Is Mr. Rowe here?" Longfellow asked, unwinding his long woolen scarf.

"He's in the kitchen, finis.h.i.+ng his breakfast. I'd already moved on, so I leaped up to see who it was. Anything that keeps the blood moving!" the lawyer added with a grin that spread his beard. "But go in to the study fire. I'll see if I can find you some tea. I'll let our host know you're here," were his last words, as he left them.

They soon found chairs, and sat to stare at one another. Each then tried to imagine exactly what Rowe should be told-and how he might take the solemn news.

"Longfellow?" came a query. "And Mrs. Willett! How glad I am to see you you here, as well. Now, I can thank you again for the sweets you were kind enough to offer me yesterday. A successful day, I think?" the minister asked Longfellow. He received a nod, but nothing more to alter his cheerful mood. here, as well. Now, I can thank you again for the sweets you were kind enough to offer me yesterday. A successful day, I think?" the minister asked Longfellow. He received a nod, but nothing more to alter his cheerful mood.

"Do you come on some other business?" Rowe craned his neck toward Longfellow's bundle of cloth, now resting on the hearth. "Have you brought me something?"

"In a manner of speaking," Longfellow admitted. Then, again, he fell silent.

"I've offered my home to a visitor, as you see. An act of charity, to benefit an old resident." Rowe rubbed his hands together, thinking, Longfellow imagined, of his pockets.

"Business of a sort has brought us. Bad business, I'm afraid, which will benefit no one. An old business with us, too, unfortunately." The selectman stopped, sensing that the preacher had already begun to fear the worst.

"No!" Christian Rowe cried abruptly. "Not again! Not-murder?"

Longfellow gave no reply, but watched Rowe stagger back, his arms reaching until he found a st.u.r.dy chair to cling to. "What name, sir?" he demanded.

"Alexander G.o.dwin. He was found this morning, at the edge of my ice pond."

"Your ice pond? Was he really?..." This information suddenly seemed to restore the preacher. "Was he, indeed?" Absently, he allowed a finger to explore an ear, while he considered further. "Not a member of our church, if he did sometimes attend-but wasn't he the youth who fought only yesterday with young Wainwright?" With something solid to ponder, Rowe pulled a chair next to Mrs. Willett's, and sat. Was he really?..." This information suddenly seemed to restore the preacher. "Was he, indeed?" Absently, he allowed a finger to explore an ear, while he considered further. "Not a member of our church, if he did sometimes attend-but wasn't he the youth who fought only yesterday with young Wainwright?" With something solid to ponder, Rowe pulled a chair next to Mrs. Willett's, and sat.

"Yes," Longfellow admitted.

"Yes, we spoke of it ourselves, didn't we? And I suggested further guidance... although you seemed to disregard my concerns."

"Their argument was a brief one," Charlotte a.s.sured him. Rowe took her hand in his, and held it.

"I'm very glad you you were not upset by their behavior," he told her. "But I have already discovered the cause of the altercation. It seems it was due to a young woman." were not upset by their behavior," he told her. "But I have already discovered the cause of the altercation. It seems it was due to a young woman."

"Is that what you were told?" Charlotte asked.

"By Jemima Hurd, who accused Martha Sloan of being somewhat wanton in her affections. She is a handsome girl, perhaps more suitable for our Lem, after all, than for-" Rowe came to a halt. He realized that the suggestion was no longer worth making, with Alexander G.o.dwin lying dead.

Longfellow answered the minister's next question before it was asked. "We've left him in your cellar, out in the graveyard. I've also sent someone for John Dudley."

Talk of a corpse in his own backyard caused Rowe to consider more carefully the likely impact of the matter. "But murder-you are absolutely sure? absolutely sure? How, exactly, have you drawn your conclusion?" How, exactly, have you drawn your conclusion?"

"By looking at a hole in the back of his neck, about the size of a s.h.i.+lling. We're certain it was made by a tool found beside him."

"A tool? To me, that would imply an accident, perhaps suffered while he worked on the ice yesterday. Though with so many about-"

"This was no accident. He must have been attacked from behind, struck by an ice hatchet Lem took from Mrs. Willett's barn. The killer left the body in a small wood where it was unlikely to be found for hours, or even days."

Rowe removed his hand from Charlotte's. Had he finally begun to pull the pieces together? She wondered all the more when it seemed his eyes made of new point of avoiding her own. Instead, they went to the cloth bundle on the hearth.

Just as he took a breath to speak once more, Rowe was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

"Thus," Moses Reed said quietly, "we have a weapon, witnesses to an earlier altercation involving the victim, and a possible motive. But these things are rarely what they seem. Tell me, who found the body?" The lawyer entered, and set the tea service he carried onto a table.

"Lem Wainwright, I'm sorry to say," Longfellow replied.

"Another point for the prosecution." Reed stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Some might say that a man who has committed murder will go back to the scene of his crime... but that sort of thing is hardly proof. What was the boy doing when he found the body?"

"Looking for the hatchet he'd lost earlier," Longfellow explained. He mentioned seeing the missing canvas bag himself-and, that it had long rested at the feet of several men at the bonfire, including the village constable.

"Now that that may take us forward a step. Has the affection reported between Lem and Martha Sloan been put into the form of an engagement?" may take us forward a step. Has the affection reported between Lem and Martha Sloan been put into the form of an engagement?"

"Not yet," Charlotte answered.

"Then I doubt he would go as far as murder to protect his name, or hers. At least a jury may not care to think so. And the scuffle could have been caused by something else entirely. I'll know more when I've talked with the boy-if you wish it," he added, giving Lem's acknowledged sponsors a chance to refuse.

"It could be a good idea," said Charlotte. "Do you think he's in enough danger to need an attorney?"

"At the moment, that's difficult to say."

"If so, would you be able to help him, Mr. Reed?"

"I will try, madam. For your sake as well as for his. Although I've not been asked to stand in court on a case of murder, I've seen one or two tried. It's a challenge I'll gladly accept, should it come to that."

Further speculation was interrupted by rapid knocking.

As he was closest to the front door, Reed went to answer. Moments later, there was a bustle in the entry hall. Then they saw a man with dun-colored hair and a strikingly bulbous nose make his way into the room. John Dudley went straight for the fire. Once he'd reached it he stood with his back nearly covering the hearth, his hands behind him, swaying slightly.

Charlotte could not help noticing, as she looked up, that the constable suffered from a large red carbuncle on his neck, with three or four yellow heads coming up around it. This seemed almost worthy of one of the sly friends of Sir John Falstaff-though which one, she could not recall.

"What's this about a murder?" the constable asked, after he'd sent a bleary eye to each of them.

"You heard already?" asked Longfellow.

"You think it's nothing at all to come walking down the road with a corpse under a sheet of canvas? Several saw you-by now, the news is all over the village. What do you expect me me to do about it?" to do about it?"

Not known for an ability to converse politely, John Dudley seemed to have outdone himself in rudeness.

"Do, John?" Longfellow answered mildly. "Why, whatever you think best. At least until the selectmen meet to consider this. I presume it will be no earlier than tomorrow. With the look of the weather, it may take longer. Until we give you further instruction, it would seem you and I are of about equal rank here, with Mr. Rowe a close third. But to be sure you have the facts straight, let me say that G.o.dwin was found early this morning, near where we worked on the ice, yesterday afternoon."

Longfellow related the rest.

John Dudley took a long moment to digest the information. He was, it seemed, more than a little fearful of his new responsibility.

"You put him down there?" This was asked bluffly, with a jerk of a thumb toward an east window, and the graveyard.

"That's right."

Dudley reached up in an attempt to scratch at his boil, and drew his hand away as though the area were on fire. With a malevolent eye, he looked to the one person in the room who remained a stranger. He now seemed to find the man familiar. "Who's this, then?" he asked.

"My name, sir, is Reed. I am an attorney, with an office in Boston."

"Reed? The Reed who stole from my father years ago? That That Reed went off to Boston, thinking himself far too good for the likes of us!" Reed went off to Boston, thinking himself far too good for the likes of us!"

"Yes, we were neighbors. And I did take some apples that were not mine, as I recall. I once had the ways of an impious and thoughtless boy, I admit. As so many do," he added, considering. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Dudley- John-I seem to have heard that you, too..."

"That's enough! We want no lawyers here, dirtying our investigations!" Dudley spat into the fire, his features suddenly pinched by his anger.

"As you wish," the lawyer replied with a tiny smile. "I will retire, then, to begin my own investigations."

"This is not Suffolk County, with your m'lords' pulling strings for you! No, you will have to deal with Middles.e.x County here, Reed. A good many in this village will have little to say to you!"

"Possibly." The attorney left the room, and they soon heard the opening and closing of the front door.

"Nicely done, constable," Longfellow said dryly.

John Dudley made a show of chuffing on his hands, which must have been warm already.

"What now?" asked the selectman.

"Well..."

Apparently, thought Longfellow, the investigation would need someone else to act as its engine.

"How about," he suggested, "going to see Widow Bowers? It was she, I think, who provided a room for G.o.dwin, and allowed him to share her table. She might tell us something of the young man's recent activities. We might also speak with young Martha Sloan, to lay another theory to rest. I'm sure she would have done little to encourage Alex, or any other lad, for I believe she's developed strong feelings for Lem Wainwright."

"You don't suppose, as they're saying, that it was jealousy?" asked the constable.

"Nor do I believe for a moment that Lem is our culprit."

"Where is the lad now?"

"Mrs. Willett sent him on an errand."

"An errand!" The constable turned to Charlotte. "Before I could speak with him? You thought that wise wise, did you?"

"Who knew when you might be roused?" Longfellow countered, subduing his own anger. "Besides, we had to consider the welfare of others. That's why I agreed to sending him off to Boar Island, with instructions to return in a few hours' time. When he does, you'll find him at my house. I'll see he's watched from then on, if you like, until this is cleared up."

"Boar Island, you say?" The constable seemed to shrink back.

"However," said Christian Rowe, wis.h.i.+ng to gain some control over matters unfolding in his own house. "I must tell you, John, that I, too, think it unlikely Wainwright had anything to do with this business. You and I should pursue the real real villain! I will call for a special meeting of the village, to learn what others know. Until then, we might spy out information together." villain! I will call for a special meeting of the village, to learn what others know. Until then, we might spy out information together."

"You and I, Reverend?" The suggestion caused the constable to pale.

"It will hardly be the first time I've directed an investigation into a question of murder, and and found an answer to it." found an answer to it."

Rowe's show of audacity left Longfellow speechless. He decided this was just as well, for it gave him time to decide on a plan of his own.

"Dudley," he said at last, "come and take a look at the corpse-but let me show you the weapon first." He lifted the bundle of cloth and untied the pair of knots, then took the hatchet by its shaft. Though the flat blade seemed wicked, it was the darker, pointed end that captured the room's attention.

Wondering what the constable's reaction would be, Charlotte was surprised to see John Dudley take a step backward, and wipe his lips with a trembling hand. His eyes stared around the room. With what seemed a great effort, he swallowed, but said nothing.

"Let's lose no more time," said Longfellow, quickly wrapping the tool again. "If I might, Rowe, I'll leave this in your custody. Come with us if you wish. But I suspect a man of your experience might as well act on his own. Someone, too, should warn the village, if we a.s.sume we still have a murderer in our midst. I'm not at all sure they would welcome my suggestions..."

"Then while I am out looking for answers, I will advise them myself," said Rowe. "For I am sure, sir, they will listen to me!"

Longfellow now noticed his neighbor, who had been unusually quiet. "Mrs. Willett? Would you like me to find someone to see you safely home?"

"No, thank you," she replied with a tense smile. "I need to make a few purchases; since I'm not far from Emily's shop, I'll go there first."

"All right, then." Again, he consulted his pocket watch. "It's nearly eleven. Gentlemen, let us be off. The sooner this tragic business is settled, the better!"

Chapter 12.

MUCH EARLIER, ACROSS the village bridge, Jack Pennywort made his way into the Blue Boar Tavern. On entering he saw no other customer. Most of the village, after all, took its breakfast cider, ale, or small beer at home. He'd even arrived before Mr. Flint and Mr. Tinder, a thing he was glad to see, for it allowed him to take one of the elders' Windsor chairs at the fireside, where high flames already fought against the growling wind. the village bridge, Jack Pennywort made his way into the Blue Boar Tavern. On entering he saw no other customer. Most of the village, after all, took its breakfast cider, ale, or small beer at home. He'd even arrived before Mr. Flint and Mr. Tinder, a thing he was glad to see, for it allowed him to take one of the elders' Windsor chairs at the fireside, where high flames already fought against the growling wind.

Jack had not come far, but it was still enough of a distance, he supposed, to call for a medicinal drink, while he went on with his task. Mr. Longfellow had given him a few pieces of good silver to spend as he liked-though his wife had demanded much of it back for the household. But he'd been a.s.sured that the telling of an exciting story would bring its own reward. He hoped so, as he attacked the final chapter of the volume he'd been given the afternoon before.

Not much of it yet made sense to him. Skipping over the bl.u.s.tery preface, he'd decided the place the author described, this Otranto Otranto, lacked nearly all the charms of his own village. And its duke seemed an ogre, ordering others around as if he owned the place. Jack thought he'd like to see the fellow try this behavior in Bracebridge. Still, Duke Manfred and Mr. Hutchinson, the lieutenant governor, might find they had a few things in common. It seemed the duke had set quite a few of his countrymen looking for ways of getting their own back, as well.

While Jack considered further, Phineas Wise entered from an adjacent kitchen. A Yankee in look and habit, the landlord had already been busy that morning, fas.h.i.+oning a stew from deer trotters, a few turnips, some rubbery parsnips, and other odds and ends he suspected would give the whole a strong flavor. With some ale slop and rinds of old cheese added at the finish, Phineas believed it would satisfy the hungry farmers who would come in to hear the day's news-and to get away from their wives, as Jack must have wished to do quite early this morning. Today, though, the little man had brought with him something quite unusual. A novel, it seemed to be! Would wonders never cease?

"Good morning, Mr. Wise!" Jack said eagerly, holding up a s.h.i.+lling. "A pint of cider to start, please."

The landlord frowned as he took up the coin. He placed it between pointed teeth and bit down gently. Then his face took on a smile, while he slipped the silver into his pocket.

"Gladly, Jack," he replied. "But where did this come from? You weren't working on the ice yesterday?"

"No, but it is from Mr. Longfellow. He gave me a j-j-job to do, reading this b-book for him."

"What's that?" asked Wise. He was sorry to hear Jack's stutter returning. It had improved in the past few years- but perhaps this new responsibility had given him more than he'd bargained for. Extending a long, thin hand, Phineas picked up the leather-bound volume to read the glowing words along its spine.

"It's something like a history," Jack explained. "Written by a man of London. But you'll say he's exercised his imagination along with his pen, when I've told you more."

"Where does the story take place?"

"In the ancient land of S-s-s-sicily."

The landlord gave a groan and rolled his eyes; lately that area of the world had sent them more than a little trouble.

"A dark sort of place," Jack revealed, "where ghosts walk with the living. I suppose they might even have witches there, still."

"Witches!" Wise's curling eyebrows shot up, for he'd been born and raised in Salem. Earlier activities in that seaside town had given even its current inhabitants a bad name. But the spree of hanging had occurred well before New England learned the value of scientific ways of thinking-and, that such unpleasantness greatly disrupts commerce.

Scratching at a stubbly chin, Phineas Wise went off to pour Jack's cider, while a few more customers blew in. Jack bent quietly to finish his work, ignoring the rest.