The Ninth Daughter Part 3

"Are they still in there?"

Both children nodded. Nabby was a silent girl, even at eight years of age worrisomely withdrawn. Her composure shattered, she looked like she'd been weeping: She adored her father. All Johnny's blunt-spoken sarcasm seemed to have deserted him as well.

"Nabby." Abigail bent down to her daughter to whisper, "You run at once to Mr. Revere's shop-Johnny, you go with her"-Johnny would never tolerate seeing his sister dispatched on an errand if he were not given one as well, and never mind that he was barely out of dresses-"and tell Mr. Revere that soldiers are here-How many are there?"

"These two and an officer inside," reported Johnny promptly. "He's from the Provost Marshal." In addition to studying Latin and the beginnings of Greek under his father's eye, the pale, fair-haired boy had lately become the neighborhood expert on the facing-colors and insignia of the regiment stationed on Castle Island.

"Tell Mr. Revere that. He'll know what to do. s.h.i.+mrath, run tell Mr. Sam Adams. He may be at his house again and he may still be at Mrs. Malvern's house in Tillet's Yard-Jed, you go to Tillet's Yard. I'll hold them here."

The children bolted in all directions. The shorter guard, not having been privy to Abigail's murmured instructions, grunted, "Thank you, m'am. Those brats are a nuisance, no error." The taller-a young man with a snub nose and wide-set blue eyes-regarded Abigail worriedly as she moved toward the mouth of the little alley that led to the yard behind.

"Sorry, m'am." He stepped in front of her. "Just but family permitted in." His English was one step from Gaelic, and not much of a step at that. "Lieutenant'll be done in a minute-"

"I am Mrs. Adams." Abigail handed him her shopping basket and the pumpkin. "If you would be so good as to carry this in for me?"

The young man cast a disconcerted glance back over his shoulder, and the older one waved him impatiently, adding, "And keep hold of your d.a.m.n musket!" when he would have set it against the wall.

"Yes, sorr. Sorry, sorr." With his weapon tucked awkwardly under one arm, the pumpkin under the other, and the heavy basket in both hands, he followed Abigail around to the yard and the kitchen door.

"Put it there." Abigail nodded toward the broad table of scrubbed oak in the center of the big room: kitchen, workroom, dining-hall, nursery, schoolroom, and stillroom combined, the warm heart of the house where everything of importance was accomplished. When the children were in bed it was here she and John would work on pamphlets, letters, reports to the Committees of Correspondence in other colonies, and it was here, upon occasion, that members of the small, unofficial committee that headed up the Sons of Liberty sometimes met as well.

At the moment Pattie, bless her faithful heart, was finis.h.i.+ng with the lamps for the day, setting the cleaned tin triangles aside on their shelf-wicks neatly trimmed-to await the fall of night. This task she abandoned, face flooded with relief, at her mistress's entrance. "Oh, Mrs. Adams-!" At the same instant three-year-old Charley-ordinarily the household's most outspoken supporter of the Sons of Liberty and Death to King George-flung himself against Abigail's skirts and buried his face in her cloak, clearly not up to the task of fighting full-grown British soldiers after all. Tommy, sixteen months old and Charley's most loyal follower, wasn't far behind.

"Flogged them, have you?" Abigail pressed both fair little heads rea.s.suringly, and regarded the abashed soldier with a chilly eye.

"M'am, I swear-"

"Never mind. Pattie, I abase myself with shame for having abandoned you so heartlessly; there's mola.s.ses candy in the basket which this nice young representative of His Majesty's government has so kindly carried in for me. It is for you and for them. Is that cider I smell heating? Please pour some out for-what is your name?-Please pour some out for Mr. Muldoon, and bring in three cups of it on a tray to the parlor: the good cups. Don't Don't set your musket down there, young man, unless you want my son to shoot either himself or you with it-not on the table, either, if you please. We're going to prepare food there. Pattie, may I trespa.s.s upon your good nature still further and ask you to start getting the chickens ready to roast and the lobster to boil, and the pumpkin to cook with apples and corn? I shall be in to help you as soon as matters have been dealt with in the parlor. And fetch one of the clean rags and lay it on the sideboard for that fearsome piece of artillery. Charley, you and Tommy may help Pattie with that." set your musket down there, young man, unless you want my son to shoot either himself or you with it-not on the table, either, if you please. We're going to prepare food there. Pattie, may I trespa.s.s upon your good nature still further and ask you to start getting the chickens ready to roast and the lobster to boil, and the pumpkin to cook with apples and corn? I shall be in to help you as soon as matters have been dealt with in the parlor. And fetch one of the clean rags and lay it on the sideboard for that fearsome piece of artillery. Charley, you and Tommy may help Pattie with that."

Having kicked off her pattens, hung up her cloak, removed her bonnet, straightened her day-cap, and donned a clean ap.r.o.n while she spoke, Abigail made her way through the door and into the parlor where John stood facing the representative of the British Army's military law.

"Mr. Adams," she greeted the short, chubby, round-faced little man beside the cold fireplace. "The house appears to be singularly well-protected today. To what do we owe the honor of this visitation?"

"Mrs. Adams." John took her hand. "Allow me to present Lieutenant Coldstone, of His Majesty's Provost Guard. Lieutenant, my wife."

"I am honored." Coldstone bowed.

He was well-named, Abigail reflected. His features had the appearance of something carved from marble: delicate, icy, and rigidly composed. The snow-white powder of his wig somehow added to the colorlessness of his features, rather than showing them up pinker, as the (admittedly ill-powdered) Muldoon's did. His eyes were dark, and chilly as a well digger's backside.

"The Provost Marshal," said John, lifting from the mantelpiece a folded sheet of paper, "seems to believe I have some knowledge of the death of Mrs. Perdita Pentyre, if no worse involvement, and the disappearance of Mrs. Malvern, in whose house Mrs. Pentyre's body was found. Did you know anything about this?"

Perdita Pentyre! The name left Abigail momentarily breathless. She closed her mouth on a gasped demand, The name left Abigail momentarily breathless. She closed her mouth on a gasped demand, Are you sure Are you sure? Because obviously both John and Lieutenant Coldstone were very sure. Perdita- Perdita- "I heard that a body had been found, yes." Abigail collected her thoughts, her heart sinking. "And that Mrs. Malvern had disappeared." And still has not come forth . . . And still has not come forth . . .

"From whom did you hear this," asked Coldstone, "and where?"

"In Fish Street, at about ten this morning when I was doing the marketing." And thank goodness that, like King Solomon, this impeccably uniformed young man knew nothing about housekeeping and would be unlikely to ask why a woman whose home was as neat as Abigail's would leave her marketing until so advanced an hour.

"Fish Street doesn't lie between here and the market," pointed out Coldstone.

Not so ignorant, after all. "Mrs. Malvern is a close friend. Situated as she is-obliged to teach a dame school, and without a servant-I went there to ask if there were anything I could obtain for her. Thank you, Pattie-" "Mrs. Malvern is a close friend. Situated as she is-obliged to teach a dame school, and without a servant-I went there to ask if there were anything I could obtain for her. Thank you, Pattie-"

The girl came in, laid the tray with its three tall beakers of cider on the parlor table, cast a glance at Coldstone as if she expected him to arrest her as well, and ducked from the room.

Coldstone ignored the cider. "Did Mrs. Malvern ever speak of Mrs. Pentyre? To your knowledge, were they acquainted?"

"They may have known one another by sight," responded Abigail, still trying to take it in, that the young and lovely wife of one of the richest merchants in Boston had known Rebecca well enough to have her throat cut in her kitchen. She stammered a little: "Mrs. Malvern had left her husband by the time Mrs. Pentyre-Miss Parke, as she was then-married Richard Pentyre. Coming as she did from Baltimore, and Mrs. Pentyre from New York, I doubt Mrs. Malvern would have known Mrs. Pentyre as a girl."

Perdita Pentyre!

The silk dress. The diamond earrings. It made sense. Richard Pentyre, every inch the picture of an English gentleman, was bosom-crony to Governor Hutchinson and recipient of every favor and perquisite available to a loyal friend of the King.

And why not? His young and lovely wife was mistress to Colonel Leslie, commander of the garrison on Castle Island.

Her hand did not move, but she could almost feel through the fabric of her pocket and petticoats the note she had taken from the woman's dishonored body. The Linnet in the Oak Tree. Cloetia. The Linnet in the Oak Tree. Cloetia.

One of ours, Dr. Warren had said.

Perdita Pentyre, an agent of the Sons of Liberty.

Who would have thought it?

"I beg your pardon." She was aware that Lieutenant Coldstone had said, Mrs. Adams? Mrs. Adams? with a note of interrogation in his voice. "My mind was otherwhere. Mrs. Malvern is, as I said, a close friend to our family. She lived with us, when first she was obliged to leave her husband's house-" with a note of interrogation in his voice. "My mind was otherwhere. Mrs. Malvern is, as I said, a close friend to our family. She lived with us, when first she was obliged to leave her husband's house-"

"So she is close to both your husband and yourself."

His eyes were on John as he spoke, and Abigail, with a warning ringing oddly in her mind, like the smell of smoke in the night, glanced swiftly at John's face. He wore an expression of wariness, such as she'd seen on him when he played chess with an unfamiliar opponent. Only grimmer.

She answered, "Yes."

John added, quietly, "As I've told you."

"And she is not an intimate friend to Mrs. Pentyre, so far as you know?"

"Not so far as I know."

"Does she share your husband's political opinions?"

Abigail's glance went to John again, and this time the tension in him was unmistakable. Not a chess game. A fencing-match A fencing-match, she thought, like the one in like the one in Hamlet Hamlet: the rapiers unb.u.t.toned, and one blade poisoned. "We met at church," she said. "Like both of us, and many others, Mrs. Malvern believes that the colonies have the right to a voice in their own government, though what that has to do with such a crime being committed beneath her roof I am at a loss to imagine."

"Are you, m'am? At what time did your husband come in last night?"

"He did not," replied Abigail. "He has been pleading a case in Ess.e.x County since Monday. He was to have returned last night, but I presume was delayed until after the time that the gates are shut and the ferry closed down for the night. When I left for the market this morning he had not yet come in."

"As I told you also," added John, whose cheeks had developed red blotches of anger. "I expect my children will say the same, if you care to interrogate them."

"John," said Abigail sharply, "what does-?"

Coldstone held up a staying hand. "What time was that?"

Queenie saw me outside Rebecca's door. "Nearly half past seven. Daylight." "Nearly half past seven. Daylight."

"And you have only just returned from your marketing?"

"I went first to Mrs. Malvern's house to see if there was anything I might get for her, and found a slate by her door, saying, No School. I thought she might have been ill, and walked on to return a book I had borrowed from a friend in the North End; I returned by way of Fish Street again, to see if she was awake and in need of anything. 'Twas then I heard that a woman had been found in her house, dead, and no one could say what had happened to Mrs. Malvern or where she might be. I have been seeking word of her."

"In preference to a reunion with your husband?"

"My dear Lieutenant," said John, with a half grin that did not reach his eyes, "Mrs. Adams is the original Eve for curiosity. She knew knew where she would be able to locate me, when she needed me." where she would be able to locate me, when she needed me."

Past the Lieutenant's shoulder, Abigail saw a man cross the window on the outside, a distorted shape in the uneven diamonds of gla.s.s. The fourth or fifth to do so, she thought, in five minutes-unusual for Queen Street at this time of a weekday morning.

"As I have told you already," John went on, "I spent last night at Purley's Tavern in Salem, my horse having strained a fetlock a number of miles from the ferry-"

"You could tell me you spent last night in Constantin ople, and be away from Boston by the time I'd sent Sergeant Muldoon there to check your story."

"You can certainly send Sergeant Muldoon to check with the ferryman as to the time I crossed this morning."

"As a lawyer, Mr. Adams-and the cousin of the man who heads up the Sons of Liberty-you know quite well that there are other ways into this city than the Winnisimmet Ferry or the gate at the Neck . . . and other ways that a man might have to do with a woman's death, than wielding the knife himself. I-and Colonel Leslie-would prefer to have you where we know we can lay our hands on you."

With a shock Abigail realized that Johnny had not been exaggerating. The Provost Marshal's man was, indeed, here to arrest John-for the murder.

Cold panic flooded her, then hot rage. Seditious Seditious the Crown might well call him-as it called all its enemies. But that anyone would even consider for an instant that he had had or the Crown might well call him-as it called all its enemies. But that anyone would even consider for an instant that he had had or could could have had anything to do with a crime of that nature left her breathless. She glanced at the window again, and though the flawed gla.s.s made it difficult to make out details, she saw that there definitely were at least five men, loitering in the street in front of the house. have had anything to do with a crime of that nature left her breathless. She glanced at the window again, and though the flawed gla.s.s made it difficult to make out details, she saw that there definitely were at least five men, loitering in the street in front of the house.

She said, "Surely, Lieutenant," in her most reasonable voice, "if your commander simply wishes Mr. Adams to be available for further questioning, would not a bond serve as well?" She tucked her hands beneath her ap.r.o.n, mostly to keep the officer from seeing them ball into unwomanly fists. "We are simple folk, and not so wealthy that my husband can afford to flee and leave thirty pounds in your hands-I believe thirty pounds is the usual bond for good conduct? Unless you would rather take our firstborn son, but I really wouldn't want to do that to whoever would have to look after him."

Outside, a child shouted something, and a man's voice reproved: "Hush, there, s.h.i.+mmi, we're not here to make trouble . . ."

And the voice of the guard, "And what are you here for, then, Rebel?"

Coldstone, interrupted in the midst of his reply, frowned. As he walked to the window John stepped closer to Abigail's side, stage-whispered, "You'd price Johnny at thirty pounds?"

She shrugged, never taking her eyes from the officer's crimson back as he angled his head to look through the thick panes into the street. "We've two other sons."

Coldstone looked back sharply over his shoulder at them, narrow face expressionless. Then he stalked to the table, where his sabertache lay, and from it withdrew a sheet of paper. Abigail helpfully fetched her writing box from where it lay on a corner of the mantelpiece, and set it before him. The officer regarded her in hostile silence, then took the quill she offered him, studied the point critically, adjusted it with his penknife, and wrote: Mr. John Adams, lawyer, of Queen Street, Boston, is hereby summoned to appear before the Provost Marshal of His Majesty's forces at Castle William on Friday, 25 November 1773 at noon to post bond for his good conduct in the matter of the murder of Mrs. Richard Pentyre of this town. Lt. J. Coldstone, on His Majesty's behalf.

"Do not fail." He dusted it, poured off the sand, and handed the sheet to John as if he were sorry that it was not poisoned. John inclined his head respectfully.

"I will not. Thank you for your forbearance, Lieutenant."

Coldstone opened the door to the hall, snapped, "Muldoon!" in the direction of the kitchen, and the young man appeared, vastly fl.u.s.tered and with crumbs of mola.s.ses candy on his jacket. "Get your musket," he reminded him disgustedly. "And come."

John and Abigail walked them to the front door, emerged onto the step to bow another farewell. From the step it could be seen that Queen Street was filled end to end with men: most of them young, though Abigail recognized Billy Dawes the cobbler and the blacksmith Isaac Greenleaf, who had to be in their thirties and masters of their own shops. None were armed, but all were watching the house, and there were a lot of them. More arriving even as the remaining sentry saluted.

Knowing Bostonians, the moment Coldstone turned away, John put his finger to his lips for silence-but when the Lieutenant and his two sentries turned the corner into Cornhill, somebody let out a cheer that was taken up for the length of the street.

Coldstone didn't turn around.

Seven

"We'vemadeanenemy." John closed the door, after thanking the mob, a little stiffly, for its appearance. John was never comfortable with the idea that it was often Sam's mobs, rather than the well-reasoned justice of British Law, that got things done in Boston.

"He was our enemy when he arrived." Abigail went back into the parlor, picked up a beaker of tepid cider. It was well past noon, and she had intended, she recalled, to share breakfast with Rebecca. "Did he say why he was so certain you were the killer? Other than that your name is Adams?"

"In that case, why not call on Sam? Which he clearly didn't, if Sam was able to marshal a mob at short order-"

The parlor door crashed open, and Pattie and the children swarmed through. "Ma, did you see it? Did you see it? Uncle Sam brought them, and Mr. Dawes, and Mr. Revere, and they made that lobsterback captain look nohow!" "Oh, Mrs. Adams, that Irishman said as they were going to take Mr. Adams up for murder-" "Ma, you should have shot him!"

Nabby flung herself silently at John, clutched him around the waist, buried her face in his coat, and burst into tears. Tommy, still very uncertain of his balance, did likewise with Abigail.

"I will say this for Sam," remarked Abigail, as their family tugged them into the kitchen, "he's quick."

"So was the lad who picked my pocket last month in front of Christ's Church, but that doesn't mean I want to see him in charge of the destiny of this colony. I'm quite all right, dear girl." John put a gentle finger under Nabby's chin, raised her eyes to his. "Spartan women didn't shed tears after defeat in battle," he added with a smile. "So why weep for a victory? Keep an eye on your brothers and help Pattie with dinner-Lord, I'm hungry!-while I talk to your mother. What happened?" His voice dropped to a whisper as he followed Abigail to the sideboard, helped her carry to the table the heavy iron Dutch oven and the crock of lard. "Was he telling the truth? Perdita Pentyre! Did Did Mrs. Malvern know her?" Mrs. Malvern know her?"

"She must have." Abigail dug in her pocket, brought out the note. "I think she must have been Rebecca's source, for secrets and scandal in the British camp. I suppose there's no doubt that it was was she, and not another? Her face was . . . much mutilated." she, and not another? Her face was . . . much mutilated."

At the other end of the table, Pattie raised a cleaver and whacked off the head of one of the dinner chickens. The other, decapitated, gutted, pale, and naked, lay on a plate before Abigail already. Her empty stomach turned, and she looked queasily away.

"That officer at least was as sure as he could be," rumbled John as he unfolded the slip of paper. "Mrs. Pentyre is indeed missing from her home. According to Lieutenant Coldstone, the stableman there says that Mrs. Pentyre took a light chaise out, fairly late in the evening, and its horse was found wandering loose on the Commons this morning. They're dragging the Mill-Pond for the chaise." He added drily, "I understand that if Richard Pentyre is unable to identify his wife's body, Colonel Leslie knows it well enough to do so."

"It isn't a matter for jest." In a low voice Abigail recounted what she had found in Rebecca Malvern's house that morning, and what she had done about it. "I could have beaten Sam with a broom handle for going through the place as he did," she finished, as she tucked the chicken into its place in the pot. "The more so now, that any trace of evidence that it wasn't wasn't you has been destroyed. I went to Malvern's after we left Hazlitt's printshop." you has been destroyed. I went to Malvern's after we left Hazlitt's printshop."

"You don't think she'd have taken refuge with him?"

Abigail shook her head. "No. I think she'd have taken refuge with Revere, or with us, or with Orion Hazlitt. But she didn't."

John said, "Hmmn."

"If she had," Abigail went on slowly, drying her hands, "I wouldn't put it past Malvern-I don't think think I'd put it past Malvern-to take her in, and then lock her up again, as he did before-" I'd put it past Malvern-to take her in, and then lock her up again, as he did before-"

He glanced back at her from the note, which he was studying by the stronger light of the kitchen window. "You truly think he would do something like that?"

Abigail hesitated. "I truly don't know," she said at last. "One hears of it-and not just in novels," she added, seeing the corner of his mouth turn down. "He is-a man who will have his own way, no matter what he has to do to get it. Mostly, I wanted to speak with him before the Watch told him of the crime and Rebecca's disappearance. I knew he'd see no one, afterwards."

"You're probably right about that. And much as I hate to admit it, if Sam and the others hadn't cleared up the scene I suppose Coldstone would have had grounds to arrest me for sedition this morning, instead of being put off with a thirty-pound bond." At that point in Abigail's narrative, he'd s.n.a.t.c.hed off his wig and thrown it at the wall; it lay like a dead animal now on the sideboard near his hand. Without it, his face looked even rounder, his blue eyes more protuberant. His mouse brown hair, short-cropped, was graying, and Abigail had to suppress the urge to kiss the thin spots above his forehead. "You say Sam didn't recognize Mrs. Pentyre? Or know about her?" He turned the note over in his fingers. "Did you take a close look at this?"

She shook her head, set aside the dumplings she was making, and crossed to his side. "When he saw her body, he certainly didn't have any candidates in mind. There can't be that many wealthy women who were friends with Rebecca, who would have been using the code of the Sons." Over his shoulder she studied the paper: The Linnet in the Oak Tree. Cloetia.

And frowned. She dried her hands again, took from a drawer in the sideboard a much-scribbled sheet on which Nabby-with many blots and scratches-had been practicing the fiddling art of writing with a goose-quill. This she held up to John, her thumb at the topmost line, where Rebecca had written: All Things Work Together for the Good of Them that Love the Lord.

"Is that the same handwriting?" she asked.

John fished in his pocket for a magnifying lens, laid the two papers side by side.

"The capitals are the same," he said, after a long few minutes. "But look how the small o o's and e e's want to pinch, while Mrs. Malvern's are naturally round. Not just one or two, but all of them. See there, where the in in in in Linnet Linnet blots and widens, where he's tried to imitate that little swoop you see in the blots and widens, where he's tried to imitate that little swoop you see in the in in in in Things Things. The same on the downstrokes of the capital T T's and L L's: that forced change of angle." He offered her the gla.s.s.