A Mischief in the Snow (13 page)

“Don't go too far, Pennywort,” Samuel Sloan growled a moment later, after he'd surveyed the other customers. “Or it could be all of our skins, and not just your own hide.” Seeing the unfortunate effect of his words—for Jack now seemed about to weep into his third serving of
ale—he raised a finger and pointed to the landlord, letting him know who would pay for another. “Only keep what you've learned under your hat, won't you, lad?” he added.

Jack snuffled, and brought forth a smile.

Further comment was interrupted when someone flung open the front door, letting in the wind and a stupendous piece of news.

“There's a body in the reverend's cellar!” The speaker was Amos Flagg, a cobbler who lived by the common.

“What?” came from many throats, as everyone sat up and stared.

“Brought in just now by Mr. Longfellow and Mrs. Willett—both of them in with Reverend Rowe. And who do you think it is?”

“Who?” called Mr. Flint in a high, excited voice, asking for them all.

“It's Alexander Godwin—frozen solid!”

This caused a somewhat lower muttering to begin. Strangely, thought Phineas Wise, who now stood by the ale barrels, one or two even seemed to hide slight smiles. Watching looks pass from man to man, the landlord felt a doubled pang of uneasiness.

“How?” a voice called out.

It seemed that the cobbler had not explored as fully as he'd intended, once he'd gone down and lifted the tarpaulin, to stare into a frost-flecked face with clouded, bulging eyes. He shrugged as he told the little more he knew.

“Can't say for sure. But he was a big, healthy boy, and he wasn't ill, was he? Nearly knocked someone down just yesterday! And he's laid out flat, so I doubt he died of cold. Though he's frostbound
now.”

Before much longer, several men had decided to go
and examine the body more closely; a small party formed at the door, then went out together. But by that time others had gone out quietly on the same mission, through the kitchen in back. More simply sat, and by the looks on their faces, there was a general idea that the young man's death had been no accident.

No one, thought Phineas Wise, had yet mentioned murder. But had they assumed otherwise?

“Mr. Wise,” said Jack Pennywort, his voice unsteady, his face unusually pale as he brought his poor foot from under the table.

“Yes, Jack?”

“I think I shall go, now. W-w-will you sell me a b-b-bottle of brandy, to take along? I have another sh-sh-sh—” It seemed he could not bring himself to utter the word, though he set a fresh coin on the table.

The landlord picked up the shilling, studied it intently, and gave it back.

“I think not. Go home, Jack,” he said kindly. This only gave the little man further distress, and he began to whimper.

The landlord scratched his stubbled cheek solemnly, and said a silent prayer for them all.

W
HEN THEY LEFT
Reverend Rowe's stone house Charlotte watched the minister walk off in one direction, while Longfellow and Constable Dudley took another. She chose a third, glad that she didn't have far to go.

She walked for a few moments toward the river on the main road, then turned into a narrow lane. Beneath bare elms at the corner stood the freshly painted house of Hiram and Emily Bowers. She followed a flagstone path to its Dutch door, recalling that Hiram would be off in Salem, for a brother there had recently fallen ill. Emily had informed her of this, standing before shelves full of odds and ends, when she'd paid a visit to purchase five pounds of dried cherries. Information, after all, was something Emily Bowers handled as often as provisions.

Not everything she heard, of course, was passed on to everyone. Speculating
who
might wish to know
what
was something requiring tact from a woman in her position, Emily herself was often heard to say. While some were
eager for every little tidbit, others, including Mrs. Willett, were more particular.

Emily's eyes lit up as Charlotte entered the low room in front of the family's quarters. Clearly, she had something of interest to discuss. She put a hand on Charlotte's arm, and ushered her to one of a pair of padded benches covered in new chintz, next to the hearth. This was lately improved by the addition of an inset stove, which roared a welcome of its own.

“How was the pie?” Emily inquired.

“Once he'd eaten three helpings, Lem paused to tell me it was quite good. I enjoyed it as well.”

“I thought so. The best fruit we've seen in some weeks…”

Charlotte nodded, readying herself for the match.

“It's not the first time I've heard that young man's name mentioned today,” Emily informed her softly, her eyes glittering, like a squirrel's.

“Oh?”

“I see by your face that what I've heard may be true! What has Lem got to do with the death of Alex Godwin?”

“But how—!”

“I don't believe what some are saying, of course— even if the two of them did have a scuffle yesterday. Nothing more than high spirits, I'm sure. And drink, perhaps. A good many took too much, it seems. Two or three ladies have already been in this morning to complain of it. I couldn't go off to the ice with Hiram away, but I did hear that you, Mrs. Willett, and Mr. Longfellow, were there—and that you went back early this morning to haul the body down into Reverend Rowe's cellar! As soon as you went in to speak with him, Amos Flagg went to see who it was, but he wouldn't stay to find out
how
he died. The poor boy! Is there anything more you're at liberty to tell?”

Charlotte supposed there was no point in keeping back the rest, when it would soon be known to all. She wondered what Emily would think when she learned the truth. Taking a deep breath, she decided to find out.

“Oh, shocking!” Emily returned a minute later, though she did not seem to find the situation completely so. “All men, Reverend Rowe so often points out to us, are sinners… yet some to a
far
greater extent than others. One thing is sure—John Dudley won't be happy to be constable this day! But what are you going to do?”

“How do you mean?”

“I suppose you could get Henry back; after this, Lem can hardly stay with you. How my heart goes out to him! After all, he is one of us—though the Godwin boy was, too. Still, his family moved away so many years ago. And when he came back, it surely wasn't to be sociable! I hope he spoke more to the old women on the island than he did to the rest of us here.”

“Lem has gone there this morning,” Charlotte said calmly.

“To the island, Mrs. Willett?” For the first time, Emily Bowers showed real surprise.

“Without Alexander, who is there to assist them?”

“I hadn't thought of that. Who else
would
go up there? Not that it's far—yet who among us would feel welcome? And you know what they've said about the place for generations.”

“That it's haunted?”

“As if such things could happen, these days,” Emily sniffed. “But some do say they've seen things to make them wonder. Then again, those who live off to the north of the village tend to be less sensible than the rest of us, as you well know. With their country ways.”

“Did Alexander see anything unusual, I wonder?” Charlotte murmured, almost as if she thought aloud.

“Not that I know of, dear. And I know he was asked just that by Frances, long ago—I speak of my husband's sister, you know, who took the young man in when she felt she needed something more of a nest egg. She does have that house all to herself. He wouldn't pay much, but at least he was well behaved, for the most part.”

“It's difficult to imagine, isn't it, that he could have made such an enemy?”

“Well, I have heard some speak ill of him. He did have an unpleasant way of holding himself, as if he were far above the rest of the world. He came in here occasionally to buy for our Island Ladies, as I like to call them. Not much, for it seems most of what they need is sent down from the north—but when he did come in, Mr. Godwin could not be bothered to pass the time of day. He was
certainly
no gentleman, I thought, for all his airs, and the lace and feathers on his old hats. As he always dressed in cast-offs, you'd think he'd have had
some
humility. But have I said too much?”

“Well…” Charlotte began.

“They say he had hopes of having the whole island to himself one day, and not just the pittance they gave him instead of decent wages, which would hardly feed that old horse of his. You didn't know that? Oh yes, old Mrs. Knowles counts her pennies! He even had to beg for money from his family, my sister supposed, to pay her… he'd come riding back with the cash, and a few other things young men will spend their money on, which I don't think to offer here—as you know, I buy goods mostly for ladies. But with that great lady worth more than all of the rest of us put together, I ask you! Well, the
wealthy are often the last to part with brass
or
silver. In England, I hear, accounts for gentlemen are settled but once a year, if that! I'm glad to say we have far better manners here! Who can live on promises, after all? Though they seemed nearly enough for Alexander. The hot blood of youth, Mrs. Willett—that's what gives me the shivers to think of. Who do
you
think is responsible?”

“I've no idea,” Charlotte answered, suspecting Emily had already made a guess.

“None? None at all?”

“Not at the moment. But should I hear anything—”

“Yes, do let me know. How often it's left to the women in this village to set things straight.”

“There's something else, Emily—something I've been hoping to ask you.”

“Yes, dear?” the proprietress asked, leaning closer.

“Rachel Dudley, I think, has lost several silver spoons.”

“Oh, you did hear, then! And that's not all. I didn't know if I should say more… but I can hardly believe someone just walked in and took them from a locked cupboard, leaving no sign of a burglary. Things don't vanish on their own, no matter what some claim. And him the new constable!” Emily's tongue busied itself with sounds of disapproval, while she watched for the effect her words might have. Then she gazed toward the door, and in another moment it opened with a jingle. Two women entered.

Sarah Proctor nodded gravely, after she'd pulled back the hood of a heavy blue cloak. Beside her, Jemima Hurd sent them a fleeting smile.

“Good morning, ladies!” Emily called. She rose and offered her seat to the elderly Mrs. Proctor, who, though hardly infirm, took it as her due. Charlotte moved to one
side, and Jemima hurried to be near the stove as well, whispering thanks for the privilege.

“We were speaking of Mrs. Dudley's spoons,” said Emily in further greeting, holding back the better news of a body in the cellar.

“Most peculiar,” Mrs. Proctor proclaimed, “as I've said before.”

“And she's not the only one!” added Jemima.

“Oh?” asked Charlotte.

“Oh, yes! First, there was my caudle bowl, which I'd put away until someone else took sick. Now I can't find it anywhere! My husband insists I can't account for anything, since—”

“What?”

“Since the change.”

“Ah,” came a trio of commiseration.

“At first, I believed him… but then last month, Miriam Spender's sugar bowl and creamer went missing. And now Mrs. Pennywort says her children have lost their christening mugs. And a woman in Concord, Mrs. Ames, cousin to Esther Pennywort, told Esther she'd lost a box full of shillings she's been saving for
years
for her daughter's dowry.”

“Silver, in each case?” asked Charlotte.

“Most of us have little else in our houses that's of any value,” Sarah Proctor stated bluntly. “Who would want our pewter, most of it wretched? Especially that we've recast ourselves.”

“Except for that odd man along the north road who buys scraps,” Emily reminded her. “But you know, I misplaced an old pewter porringer. Not a very good one, with pits and dents in it; I suppose that was six weeks ago.”

“A sneak thief,” cried Mrs. Proctor, pointing a finger
to the ceiling. “A horrible thing, coming into houses! He will be caught, when a stolen piece is found for sale. That is what happened the last time something like this occurred here, when I was a girl. Put into the stocks and branded,
he
was! It was enough to make others think.”

“And yet, Sarah, I'm not sure we should worry about that today,” said Emily Bowers, “after what I heard this morning.”

“How do you mean?” asked Mrs. Proctor, her eyes newly suspicious.

“You've not heard?” Emily's smile could hardly be contained.

“How could I? Jemima came to ask my advice, which took well over an hour to give, and only moments ago did we step out to come here. Emily, what has happened? You look as if you've swallowed a toad!”

“There's been a death. And it was
no accident.”

“Mrs. Willett! What is this all about? Tell me, quickly!” Sarah Proctor commanded.

Wondering at her reputation in the village, Charlotte began by relating, once more, the tale of how Lem had found Alex Godwin's body, and her own hatchet taken from the barn. She went on to tell the women of her recent visit with Reverend Rowe, and that Rowe and Richard Longfellow, as well as the lawyer Moses Reed, had begun to investigate.

“So, young Wainwright already has counsel? Hardly a sign of innocence,” Mrs. Proctor decided, “especially when it is a Boston lawyer. And I'm sure Jemima and I saw what led up to it. As you did, Mrs. Willett. Fighting, right before our eyes! Rashness, no mistake. At the time, I suspected Godwin must have insinuated himself where he wasn't wanted. Was that it? Or was he guilty of even worse?”

“With who?” asked Jemima, fidgeting at the thought. “Who would have asked him to make such advances?”

“A seducer hardly waits to be invited, Jemima. Especially one with no hope of succeeding otherwise.”

Charlotte now regretted her usual lack of interest in local gossip. “Was there some reason Alex had no hope of courting?”

“Beyond the fact that he was a proud ninny, I believe he had no property, no trade, no prospects—and no manners. He may have supposed his family would help him, but since his father allowed him to come back to Bracebridge alone, it would seem unlikely that he planned to leave him a living in Worcester. Or, that he cared what happened to the boy at all!”

“I can't imagine he was a passionate young man,” Emily Bowers objected. “According to what my sister told me, he stayed to himself. If he had any visitors, especially young women, I'm sure she would have said so. After all, she would hardly have approved of anything of the sort.”

“Boys grow into men, Emily. And when they do, what can one expect but trouble? Lem Wainwright, too, is nearly a man, and may well be responsible for this— whether his motives were admirable, which is possible, or, as I rather suspect, not.”

Charlotte flushed at this direct attack on a friend. Catherine Knowles, too, had stated a distrust of men, young and old. Did the pains and changes of old age, she wondered, tend to make one grow more harsh toward the opposite sex? Or was it simply the result of experience?