A Mischief in the Snow (12 page)

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

“However,” said Christian Rowe, wishing 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
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
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 assume 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!”

M
UCH 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.

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 assured 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 blustery preface, he'd decided the place the author
described, this
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, fashioning 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 shilling. “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.

Within a quarter of an hour, a donation of ale had, indeed, come his way, though its main purpose was to move him out of his comfortable chair and onto a nearby bench. With his book and elbows resting on the rough planks of the table before him, Jack watched Mr. Flint and Mr. Tinder begin their morning. Soon, they began to discuss a few of Otranto's many mysteries.

“Read the prophecy once more, Jack,” Mr. Flint requested, pulling anew on his long pipe of white clay. The
little man ruffled the pages back to the beginning, and read slowly and carefully.

“
‘The castle and lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.’

“Too large,” Flint said thoughtfully. “Round, do you think?” He patted his own girth, situated today beneath a pair of flannel under-vests. “I hardly see—”

“Quite a bit bigger than that, I'd say,” Jack answered. “One fellow has a leg said to fill an entire room!”

“A metaphor, then,” Mr. Tinder surmised, drinking in smoke more quickly. “Occasionally men become too big for the
comfort
of their fellows. Most especially, when they've been inflated by listening to puff-praise!”

“Yes, indeed,” Flint agreed. “Like many in Boston these days, friend and foe alike.”

“And
in London,” Tinder added sagely. “In palaces and Parliament. I sometimes wonder if they will run out of room in Britain, and begin to push one another off their little island.”

“Do you imagine our lords may become cursed like Otranto, Mr. Tinder, if they will not give over Massachusetts to her rightful heirs, one day?”

“A good many curse them regularly now, I believe,” answered Tinder jovially. “And I would not be surprised to see a few more evicted quite handily, as was poor Mr. Hutchinson. The governor already seems to prefer the safety and society of Castle William, out among the lobsters!” Both chuckled at their humorous remarks, though they verged on treason.

Jack did not entirely understand the new drift of the conversation. But he agreed that many in Boston seemed to care little for the interests of the rest of the colony.

Still, he would say no ill against the Bostonian he knew best, who'd moved in among them, and had yesterday paid for today's breakfast. While he went on with his description of the novel's plot, the older men re-loaded their pipes, and continued to smoke in a contented fashion.

“But why,” Jack asked eventually, “do you think this helmet fell out of the sky, on top of Prince Conrad? And what got it up in the air in the first place?”

“The wind today is liable to send several things up and down again,” said Flint, who watched the trees bending outside. “Mark my words!”

“But it will not move a statue,” said Tinder, who thought more deeply on the question. “Could it be, Jack, that there was a war on, nearby? Did Mr. Walpole mention that? Gunpowder could have been used to blow the thing apart. Perhaps this helmet, with its bouncing black feathers, was hit by a cannon ball? I know for a fact such missiles may take the head of a man off quite cleanly, if they come in at the proper angle. Though I've not seen a statue with feathers in
all
my travels.”

“It may have something to do with the great arm,” Jack said finally.

“Where does that come into it?”

“A little further, after the head has fallen, leaving behind the mangled remains.”

“Oof, that's a nasty thought,” said another tavern regular. “On an empty stomach, especially.” Dick Craft had entered a few moments earlier and planted himself by his old friend Jack, whom he knew to be in funds.

“Now this great arm,” Jack went on, “stood up by itself, and hung on to the rail next to the stairs. It was inside some armor—”

“Armor!” Flint repeated with new assurance. “That
could explain a part of it, too. When wet, it tends to lock up, you see. There was one suit—badly damaged by sea salt, it was, years ago, when John Fisher brought it over. Rusted during the crossing. Standing yet at the old house, I suppose. Heard of it from old Mr. Jones—never saw it myself. But what else can you tell us of this Otranto, Jack?” he finished, sucking the dregs in his pipe.

“Well, there's quite a lot about marriage, and how you might trade an old wife for a new one.”

“A useful sort of knowledge,” Tinder returned. “I believe that is a thing far more difficult to accomplish in the Popish countries, or even in Britain, than here. Assuming of course one has some reason. Marriage here is a civil proposition, while on the other side of the water it is yet the business of the clergy—as is the case with divorce. Now there, separations are favored; but here, most realize the parties might well get up to a great deal of mischief that way, so that we prefer—”

“There is also a young lady who's stabbed, and dies,” Jack interrupted.

“Is there?” Flint asked, warming to this new idea. “That is sad, very sad. Most often in books they are only abused, though sometimes it goes on for years, until it seems their woes are worse than Job's! And when they are saved at last, it is seen as a reward for steadfast goodness.”

“Not in Otranto,” Jack assured him. “Though I couldn't keep track of
all
the women—or the men, come to that. Some are noble, and some are not, but that keeps changing, too. All at once, an old friar is revealed to be the Count of Falconara! And then, it's learned Saint Nicholas has left something buried under a tree—”

“And what is that?”

“It is an enormous sword…” Jack paused for a much
needed pull at his tankard, for his head had begun to throb.

“Convenient for the giant hand and great arm,” said Tinder, smiling. “It all seems to remind me, at least the way you tell it, Jack, of a Mr. Shandy and his Uncle Toby.”

“Then at the very end—”

Dick Craft spoke up in amazement. “What! Have you got there already, Jack? You only started yesterday!”

“Last night,” Jack admitted, “I found I'd opened up the wrong cover—then, by turning the whole thing the other way round, I found myself far advanced. I took it as a sign, of sorts. But as I was saying, at the very end there's wind and thunder, and people falling on their faces out of fear, and Saint Nicholas comes out of the clouds and takes up the ghost from the picture gallery. Finally the castle's new owner—for by then Duke Manfred has gone off to a convent—then, the new owner marries, hoping that his wife will help him to, to…” (here, Jack read from the final page) “to
‘indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul.’
And there is the end of it.”

“A gloomy ending,” said Tinder reprovingly, moving his shoes, which had begun to steam, away from the hearth. “Though it could be the wife was happy, I imagine. Women
often
enjoy a swoon, or a cry. They are such sentimental creatures…”

“But why do you think they all stayed in this castle, sir, if living there brought such terrible luck?” asked Jack.

“A good question,” said Flint. “When they could have come here, where very little of this sort of thing happens. At least in my experience.”

“Except, perhaps, on Boar Island?” asked a young farmer from Lexington, who'd earlier wandered over to listen. He was known to the company, but he was not a confidant,
and so could hardly have been surprised when they only stared back. “I've heard,” the smiling man went on, “it is a place where odd things often happen. It houses spirits, it's said. Demons, are they? And it is supposed to have wondrous decorations, like this armor you mention, sir. Can you tell me what else might be there?”

“Never you mind,”
said Phineas Wise, going by with a tray and tankards. No one else ventured anything more. Having been rebuffed enough, the farmer took up his pewter vessel and left them.

“The fewer who know what's on the island, the safer those women will be,” Tinder commented belatedly to the customer's back.

“Damned foolish, if you ask me, them living there alone.” This conclusion came from Samuel Sloan, who'd crowded in at the table nearest to the fire; moments before, he'd set down linen for the sleeping rooms upstairs, which his daughters had washed. “Far better for us if Old Cat and Mad Maud would come down from there, and go off to live in Boston. Though they're peculiar, they would find plenty of company in that place, I'm sure!”

“It would be safer,” Dick Craft agreed.

“Do you mean, Dick, because of the sh—sh—sh—?”

What Jack had begun to ask was swiftly stopped by a kick from Samuel Sloan's boot, given under the table. Jack let out a yelp; Flint and Tinder looked at one another and clicked their tongues. Somewhat chastened, Jack dipped his head, then gave a few sidelong glances to see what damage had been done.