The Ninth Daughter Part 12

Abigail looked away. It seemed to her that she could smell the blood in Rebecca's kitchen again. At the head of the wharf a straggly haired youth loitered, a thief, probably, totting up the value of the trunks. A footman helped first Mrs. Fluckner-stout and pretty and fussing angrily at everyone in sight-from the carriage, then Miss Fluckner, heiress of the house, a tall, strapping, black-haired girl of fifteen in a dress of mustard-colored silk.

"He killed her cats," Abigail said after a moment. "Two of them. Slashed them to pieces, as he did her." But when she looked back at the Lieutenant's face, there was no more expression there than he would wear if he were playing cards.

"It seems, then," he said, "that Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Fishwire were more similar to one another than we had known-that there were those who would consider the latter as reprehensible, in her way, as a woman of the town would have been. And the gap widens between them and Mrs. Pentyre."

"One could say that," returned Abigail levelly, "if one did not regard Mrs. Pentyre as a wh.o.r.e herself." His back stiffened. Does he truly believe that when a fine lady takes lovers it is different in the eyes of G.o.d from the act of some poor woman who is only doing it to buy herself bread? Does he truly believe that when a fine lady takes lovers it is different in the eyes of G.o.d from the act of some poor woman who is only doing it to buy herself bread? "As some-whom I shall not name-regard Mrs. Malvern." "As some-whom I shall not name-regard Mrs. Malvern."

He thought about that for some time before saying, "You are quite right, m'am."

"And no politics in sight."

Something changed in his eyes, and she knew as if she read it on a piece of paper, that in his mind was whatever it was that made him-and Colonel Leslie-so certain John had a hand in the killing. Whatever it was that he would not tell her.

As she would not-could not-speak Abednego Sellars's name to him.

A pretty black maid, slender as a dark lily, got down from the coachman's box to collect the odds and ends left in the coach: a book, a scarf, vinaigrette, an overfed lapdog who whined and licked her hands. As if she heard Coldstone's speculations the maid turned quickly, trying to get a look at the loitering watcher. But the young idler slipped away out of sight. Too many soldiers about? Too many soldiers about? Abigail wondered. Or had he simply been told to report to some master-thief, that the family had indeed departed for Castle Island, and the house could be robbed at leisure? Abigail wondered. Or had he simply been told to report to some master-thief, that the family had indeed departed for Castle Island, and the house could be robbed at leisure?

"You said to me the other day that killers such as this one-of whom I presume you have heard more in London-invariably continue with their killings," she said. "Why would he have waited fourteen months, between the second murder and the third? You're certain there have been none between?"

"After Mrs. Fishwire's murder," said Coldstone quietly, "I have been watching."

"Fourteen months is the length of a sea voyage, and a stay in some other land."

"I had thought that. I will send to the city magistrates of New York and Philadelphia, to ask if there have been similar crimes."

Abigail hesitated, then said carefully, "There is a man-a friend"-not a completely accurate statement, but it was the best she could manage on the spur of the moment-"who got into a quarrel with Mrs. Fishwire, more than once, I understand. He is . . . a connection of the family of Mr. Pentyre's mother, who were involved in a dispute over property. I cannot give you his name-"

Coldstone made an impatient gesture.

"-because he has been so unwise as to speak out against the King's Governor in the past . . . not an uncommon topic of conversation, in this colony. Because of the situation of his poor wife"-Would he care for this argument? She didn't think so-"I fear lest he be hara.s.sed, merely on suspicion of this crime. Have you had the opportunity to ask Mr. Pentyre if he is willing to speak with me, so that I may ask him of this?"

"Of this?" He raised one eyebrow. "Or to further your personal theory that he might be the murderer himself?"

"Lieutenant!" Mr. Fluckner strode back up the wooden steps to street level again, swinging his silver-headed cane. "Lieutenant, I have twice indicated to you that we are ready to depart! Need I remind you-"

"Forgive me." Lieutenant Coldstone turned quickly toward the red-faced merchant. "I came ash.o.r.e to accomplish two duties, and am guilty of neglecting the one in pursuit of the other."

Fluckner glanced at Abigail, his thick lips wry, as if gauging both her politics and her morals from the cost of her plain green wool cloak, the muslin cap visible beneath her hood. He said, "M'am," but didn't sound enthusiastic about it, and touched the brim of his hat.

"Mr. Fluckner, Mrs. Adams," Coldstone introduced them, as the daughter came up, followed by the mother's querulous voice.

"They're not going to come rus.h.i.+ng out of the town to shoot us on sight, you know, Papa," the girl protested, as she reached her father's side. "All they're asking for is their rights as citizens." She stared with fiery fifteen-year-old defiance at Coldstone, and Fluckner said sharply, "Hush, girl. The only rights they're interested in is the right to take property from those who've worked for it. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Adams," he added, turning back to Abigail. "We'll miss the tide if we linger." By the smoldering suspicion in his eyes-presumably at the name of Adams-he was clearly considering the possibility that she was delaying their departure until the protest meeting was finished and a concerted attack could be arranged.

"I fear Mr. Fluckner is quite correct." Coldstone turned back to her. "If you can cross tomorrow at this time," he said, "I can arrange an introduction. Would that satisfy you?"

"Thank you. I am very sensible of your a.s.sistance."

"Enough to share with me the results of the interview?"

She smiled. "Even that."

He bowed over her hand. "Until tomorrow then, m'am. Curtis-" He signaled one of the soldiers on the wharf. "Please escort Mrs. Adams back to Queen Street-"

"Good heavens, do you want the poor man killed?" Abigail stepped back. "This is Ma.s.sachusetts, Lieutenant, not London. Women are quite safe to go about by themselves."

"Not all of them," returned Coldstone quietly. "But have it as you will, Mrs. Adams."

He followed the merchant and his daughter down the steps to the wharf, where the last of the baggage had been loaded onto the launch. Mrs. Fluckner had gone aboard, too, and stood, cradling her lapdog, unwilling-for whatever reason-to set foot once more in the place that had become so suddenly dangerous for her and hers. Abigail stood for a time on the roadway, looking down at the gray green water lapping around the piers and the vessel's black-wet sides, the b.l.o.o.d.y splashes of the soldiers' uniforms, the brilliant hues of Miss Fluckner's skirt where the wind took her cloak aside. Last of all the black maid was handed into the boat, and for a moment stopped and turned back.

And what does she she think of it, who has not Scipio's position in the household, nor Surry's unshakeable trust in Sam's ability to keep his family safe? Does she wonder what will become of her, should the family suffer financial reverses in the course of this unrest over the tea? think of it, who has not Scipio's position in the household, nor Surry's unshakeable trust in Sam's ability to keep his family safe? Does she wonder what will become of her, should the family suffer financial reverses in the course of this unrest over the tea? In such circ.u.mstances, Abigail was well aware, frequently the first luxuries to be sold off were the chattel servants. In such circ.u.mstances, Abigail was well aware, frequently the first luxuries to be sold off were the chattel servants.

And yet for the briefest moment, Abigail had the feeling that the young woman was not looking at Boston, but at her her.

Mr. Fluckner's voice snapped, an angry and audible shout, "Philomela, get down here! Your mistress is calling!"

The slave turned away, and disappeared among the confusion of men as they made sail. Abigail tightened her scarves about her throat, and made her way back along the Battery March toward the town.

Nineteen

"You are crossing to Castle Island?" John set the basin of hot water on the corner of the table, brows diving down over his blunt nose the way they did in court when opposing counsel tried to slip some fact by him in a millrace of rhetoric. Abigail gathered up the last of the forks.

"Lieutenant Coldstone has offered to arrange an interview between myself and Richard Pentyre. I could ask you to escort me, but since I had rather our children did not grow up as proscribed orphans in the wake of your hanging, I think it would be better for all if Thaxter came with me instead."

"And what will you ask Mr. Pentyre when you see him?" inquired John sarcastically. "If he murdered his wife?"

"Something of the kind." Instead of coming back directly from the Battery that morning, Abigail had taken a long detour to the North End again, and had stood for some time on Prince's Street, studying the bland brick frontage of Pentyre's handsome house. Of the original dwelling, only the lintel over the door remained unchanged: ANTONINUS SELLARS-1697. The stylish slate roof with its numerous tiny dormers towered above the older gables of its neighbors, but of the half-dozen chimneys, only one-probably that of the kitchen-vented a drift of smoke.

Abigail wondered if Lisette Droux still remained in residence, or whether she had gone on, to feather her nest elsewhere. Now you ask me to speculate on the contents of a man's heart . . . Now you ask me to speculate on the contents of a man's heart . . .

A short walk took her thence to Hull Street, and a few inquiries among the neighbors had identified the residence of Mrs. Belle-Isle, likewise closed. Unlike the immense Pentyre house, the modest two-story dwelling-set back, like Rebecca's and Mrs. Fishwire's, behind a larger building, but infinitely more snug and stylish-bore the appearance of complete desertion. A young woman crossing the yard from the bigger house to what appeared to be a small hen-coop affirmed that indeed Mrs. Belle-Isle had taken her servant girl with her when she'd left.

"It may be a complete coincidence, that he left his mistress's house not long before his straying spouse was due to arrive at the home of his enemy's wife," Abigail went on as she laid the dinner dishes beside the basin, dipped up a little soft-soap onto her rag. "As it may be mere happenstance, that he arranged with his friends-and fellow tea consignees-the Hutchinson boys, to swear that he was playing cards with them until three thirty in the morning, which is when he returned to his house. If that be the case-and his quite natural grief for a wife he was betraying is genuine-I would not sc.r.a.pe salt into his wounds by accusing him of doing such a deed himself.

"And indeed," she added thoughtfully, and set out the washed cups on a towel on the opposite side of the basin, "there's no reason that Richard Pentyre has to have done the killing himself. He's a wealthy man. He could have hired someone . . . As I suppose you could have found another Son of Liberty to do the murder while you were at Purley's Tavern-"

"Always supposing I-or Richard Pentyre-didn't mind paying blackmail for the rest of our lives," snapped John.

"There is that," Abigail agreed. "But answer me this, John. If a woman has been betraying her husband quite profitably with the Colonel of a regiment-who can provide the husband with contracts and protection for his property if he happens to be about to take a whacking great consignment of tea from the East India Company-and that woman then becomes entangled with a young Adonis to whom Colonel Obliging may take exception, whose whereabouts would it be more reasonable to inquire after when she's found dead? The twice-betrayed husband who may be about to lose both contracts and protection due to his wife's romantic self-will, or a total stranger who has done nothing worse than object to the import of tea?"

"A hit, Portia." John's hand closed over her wet and soapy one. "A palpable hit. Yet I remind you that your Lieutenant Coldstone is not a stupid man, and what you have told me, he already knows. And yet whatever else he knows-or thinks he knows-causes him to believe that I, and not the deceived husband, wielded the knife."

"I wonder if there's a way to ask the Lieutenant to be in the room with me when I speak to Pentyre?" said Abigail. "I'm sure there is. For I'm very curious what Pentyre's reaction will be when I mention that someone of my acquaintance saw him-or someone very like him-walking down Hull Street at eleven thirty Wednesday night, only a half mile from where his wife was found dead. I don't expect he'll cry out or anything, but as Hamlet says, If he but blench . . ." If he but blench . . ."

"Not a bad idea," agreed John. "And I've done the same myself in courtrooms. Yet I urge you to remember, Portia, what happens to Hamlet at the end of Act Five."

Once the dishes were washed up John wrapped himself in cloak and scarves and vanished into the slow drizzle of the rain. Colonel Leslie had proclaimed a curfew on the town but no one was keeping it: John calculated that some four thousand countrymen had come into Boston so far. As she st.i.tched at the mountain of household mending-and tried to keep her attention on her children's reading-Abigail reflected that the tea crisis and subsequent presence of the mob in Boston may have been the only reason John hadn't been arrested for the Pentyre murder already, if Coldstone were that certain of whatever it was that he refused to tell her.

"And Jacob vowed a vow, saying, If G.o.d will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat, and ra . . . ra-i"-"Raiment," whispered Nabby at his side-"and raiment to put on, so that I come again to my father's house in peace; then shall the Lord be my G.o.d: and this stone, which I have set for a pillar, shall be G.o.d's house, and of all that thou shalt give me I will surely give the tenth unto thee."

But it cut both ways, she reflected, her mind straying, yet again, from her son's childish drone. Now more than ever, Colonel Leslie and the Provost Marshal would be seeking a reason to arrest John-and any other Sons of Liberty they could prove were in collusion with him-for a shocking murder, rather than for standing up for the rights of colonial Englishmen.

"That's very good, Johnny." Abigail set aside the s.h.i.+rt she was working on, helped the boy close the heavy book.

"Ma, would G.o.d really have forgiven Jacob for cheating his brother, just because Jacob promised him back a tenth of what G.o.d gave him?" Johnny sounded worried. "Didn't G.o.d love Esau and Jacob the same?"

"Later on, Jacob cheated his uncle Laban, too," added Nabby.

Abigail was still disposing of this piece of divine favoritism-not to say bribery-when she heard footsteps in the yard. The door opened to reveal John, with Sam at his side. Her eyes went to the clock-shocked-Yes, it really was half past eight-and she got quickly to her feet. John's lips were cold as marble, his mantle flecked with the last of the rain. "Now, it's past time you children should be in bed," she said, as Johnny and Nabby threw themselves on their father and their uncle Sam. "You may ask your father about Jacob tomorrow," she added, since the six-year-old showed signs of opening the subject with a more satisfactory authority: understandable, given that, like the much-put-upon Esau, he was the firstborn son. "Now-hot bricks!"

These Pattie had ready by the hearth, each wrapped in layers of towels. Abigail collected a candle from the sideboard, lit it at the work-candles on the table, woke the sleepy Charley from the settle where he'd been curled up, and gathered Tommy from his crib. She kept her voice cheerful, though Sam looked grim and John looked troubled: It was one of her foremost rules of the household, that though politics might be argued and the iniquities of the King freely aired, the darker matters of the Sons of Liberty must be kept separate from these four little souls whom G.o.d had elected to launch on their childhoods during this confusing era.

Only when she came down to the kitchen again did she ask, "Sam, what brings you here tonight?"

Sam glanced at John, who looked aside, being a firm believer in letting people fight their own battles. Sam, Abigail had noticed over the years, had a habit of getting between Bess and anyone who wanted to have words with her. She didn't know whether this was because he considered Bess his property, or because he liked to control the flow of information, and edit it if necessary for the good of all concerned. Taking John's silence as tacit permission, Sam turned back to Abigail and said, "You do, I'm afraid."

John sat down on the settle where Charley had been sleeping, and picked up the nearest book, which Abigail had been reading earlier in the day. Had the rest of the house not been freezing he would have left the room. Sam clearly waited for either John or Abigail to make some remark, and when neither did, went on grimly, "John tells me you're going to Castle Island tomorrow, under the auspices of the British Provost Marshal."

"Corrupting his servants was proving rather costly, I'm afraid, so I thought I should save money by making my inquiries direct."

"What have you told that Lieutenant?"

"Nothing," said Abigail.

"You're sure of that, are you?"

She folded her arms. "Obviously, not having been party to any of my conversations with him, you're not."

Sam's face seemed to darken in the flickering light. "You're not to go."

"Ah," said Abigail in an enlightened voice. "You know where Rebecca is, then. I must say, that relieves my mind-"

"Don't you be pert with me, Nab-"

"And don't you be bossy with me," she returned. "I'm trying to save a woman who is almost certainly in appalling peril-"

"And I'm trying to save the liberties of our country. Something I think you're in danger of forgetting."

"Not at all," responded Abigail. "And the reason we seek to retain our liberties, is so that the life of a single individual-even if she is is a a mere woman mere woman-does not get snuffed out or thrust aside because it isn't expedient for those in charge to take the time to save her."

Sam opened his mouth, glanced sidelong at John-his nose still in Pamela Pamela and giving no sign of having heard a word-and seemed to settle a little, like oatmeal taken off the boil. Very quietly, he said, "I have had every patriot in this town searching for her, for seven days now. Cellars, attics, warehouses . . . smuggler hidey-holes and the hulls of ruined s.h.i.+ps. You forget that we're not only hunting for Mrs. Malvern: We're searching for the book that contains our codes and ciphers, and the lists of our contacts in other colonies where we are perhaps not strong enough to protect those the British would seek to arrest." and giving no sign of having heard a word-and seemed to settle a little, like oatmeal taken off the boil. Very quietly, he said, "I have had every patriot in this town searching for her, for seven days now. Cellars, attics, warehouses . . . smuggler hidey-holes and the hulls of ruined s.h.i.+ps. You forget that we're not only hunting for Mrs. Malvern: We're searching for the book that contains our codes and ciphers, and the lists of our contacts in other colonies where we are perhaps not strong enough to protect those the British would seek to arrest."

"I don't forget."

"If you haven't forgotten, then you're a fool," Sam gritted. "You don't think that every time you open your mouth around that lobsterback pretty boy of yours he isn't noting down every word and fitting them together like pieces of a mosaic? He only waits until he has a picture complete, to charge me or Hanc.o.c.k or John over there with that murder, or with complicity in covering it up. Do you want the Tories putting it around that John or myself will be hanged not for fighting for our liberties, not for standing up against a monstrous attempt to make the whole of these colonies the personal fiefdom of a fat German princeling, but for murdering a woman of our own organization who disagreed with us?"

Abigail looked aside.

"Now Bess tells me you've been asking questions about Abednego Sellars, of all people-"

"Who held a grudge against Richard Pentyre."

"Then why didn't he murder Pentyre?"

"Why would he have-might he have-murdered a woman in precisely this same hideous fas.h.i.+on fourteen months ago in the North End, a woman he claimed was a witch-"

"Now you are insane." Sam's hand struck flat-palmed on the top of the sideboard next to her, a crack that made her flinch but did not cause John to stir a hair. "You're accusing everyone, casting about at random, muddying the waters, and putting us all in peril. I forbid you to go."

"And I defy you to stay me," retorted Abigail.

"And I forbid you to make any inquiry, or put about the slightest suggestion, that any Son of Liberty might have had the slightest involvement in, or knowledge of, Mrs. Pentyre's death! Good G.o.d, woman, that's all we'd need, at a time like this!"

"A time like this," said Abigail, her voice suddenly deadly quiet, "is the time-eight days-that a woman who is my friend, a woman who helped me through a time of grievous pain, is . . . somewhere. Somewhere that your smugglers and patriots and South End boys have not been able to discover, if if they have been searching as hard as you say they have and not attending your meetings and carrying pamphlets to every village and town in riding distance to protest against the landing of a cargo of tea. You can't have it both ways, Sam. Either Rebecca is in hiding with the ciphers in her possession, and afraid to contact the Sons of Liberty for reasons I will leave they have been searching as hard as you say they have and not attending your meetings and carrying pamphlets to every village and town in riding distance to protest against the landing of a cargo of tea. You can't have it both ways, Sam. Either Rebecca is in hiding with the ciphers in her possession, and afraid to contact the Sons of Liberty for reasons I will leave you you to conjecture . . . or she is dead at the bottom of the bay and the ciphers are in the killer's possession, and have been so for a week. Either a woman's life is more important to you than ninety thousand dollars' worth of tea, or it isn't." to conjecture . . . or she is dead at the bottom of the bay and the ciphers are in the killer's possession, and have been so for a week. Either a woman's life is more important to you than ninety thousand dollars' worth of tea, or it isn't."

"I forbid you to go!" thundered Sam, and turned back to the fire. "John, I order you to bridle this wife of yours and keep her from interfering, either with our own men or with that d.a.m.ned cold-faced Provost! I will not have our endeavor jeopardized, and I warn you, John, kin or not, I'll take whatever steps I need!"

And s.n.a.t.c.hing up his hat and cloak from the sideboard, he strode to the door, and vanished into the night.

Twenty

"Pa! Mrs. Adams is here."

"I know fifteen Mrs. Adamses." Paul Revere grinned, emerging in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves from the back room of his shop, an ap.r.o.n around his waist. "Yet somehow, I knew it would be you, m'am." He winked at his son behind the counter, stepped aside to let Abigail past him, into the wide-windowed little workshop with its shelves and tools and blocks of wax.

"Because Sam has ordered you not to speak to me?"

"Of course. I have tea here-" The kettle was hissing and muttering to itself on the edge of a small forge near the back door. No need to ask whether so much as a farthing's tax had been paid on it. "What do you need to know?"

It was midmorning, and wind blew icy across the harbor, rattling gently at the windows that formed a band of grayish light, halfway round the workroom. Abigail prayed it would grow less by three, when-with luck-Lieutenant Coldstone would meet her at Rowe's Wharf. Even now it wasn't bad enough to keep boats from pa.s.sing over to the Island, but her stomach did antic.i.p.atory flip-flops at the thought of being on the water in such weather. "Were you acquainted with a woman named Jenny Barry?"

He started to make a good-natured grimace, a comment on the dead woman's way of life: then she saw in quick succession recollection, angry horror, and sudden speculation fleet across his dark eyes at the name. "She was killed-" he began, and Abigail finished for him, "-eighteen months ago, give or take. Her body was slashed-"

"-like Mrs. Pentyre's, after she was dead. Yes. I knew there was something . . . Another woman was killed that same summer, Zulie Fishwire-" His dark brows knit sharply down over his nose.

"I went to her house the day before yesterday," said Abigail. "Spoke with her neighbors, which apparently the local constables barely troubled themselves to do at the time. Did you see either of their bodies?"

"I don't live in that ward." Revere shook his head. "I heard of them, of course. Everyone in the neighborhood did. There was a scare, but it seemed to come to nothing after all but tavern-shouting and vows to protect wives and daughters." He made a little s.p.a.ce on the table that occupied most of that room to set a teacup before her, then sank into his barrel-chair. On the table between them Abigail saw pamphlets, engraving plates and tools, sketches of the Dartmouth Dartmouth at anchor on Griffin's Wharf. On a shelf above them a half-finished set of dentures grinned, discolored ivory in silver wire. Abigail felt a pang of grat.i.tude that even the bearing of five children had left her with her teeth intact. at anchor on Griffin's Wharf. On a shelf above them a half-finished set of dentures grinned, discolored ivory in silver wire. Abigail felt a pang of grat.i.tude that even the bearing of five children had left her with her teeth intact.