A Mischief in the Snow (16 page)

T
HE TALL CLOCK
at the bottom of the stairs told them it was a little after two, when they entered the front door of the old farmhouse. It was already dark inside, but at least they didn't find themselves alone. Orpheus greeted them happily, and Charlotte bent to stroke him, rewarding his patience before she let him out into the snow.

In the kitchen she knelt to fan the embers of the morning's fire, then added fresh sticks of dry wood from which smoke immediately began to curl. Next came a pair of stout logs. Soon the hearth gave off not only a steady heat, but a welcome, flickering light. To cheer them further, Charlotte went to the pantry and brought back four joined tapers, cut apart their wicks, then inserted them into brass candlesticks. When she'd placed them around the room, glimmers came back from the window panes and a small hanging mirror, and from silver, pewter, and copper objects on the shelves.

Upstairs she found a pair of slippers. She brought these down and offered them to Diana, who had already removed
the boots she wore. Charlotte put on a pair of house shoes. “Tea?” she asked.

“Thank you, no. I've had nothing to do but drink tea
all day
, and it's ruined my nerves.”

“Some sharp cider, then.”

Going off once more, Charlotte took a candle down the cellar steps, and returned with a jug. Bubbles at the top told her it would be just the thing. She poured two glasses, then went to let Orpheus inside. With duties and comforts taken care of, the women settled to talk.

Charlotte began with the too-familiar tale of the morning's activities.

“I
knew
something had happened!” Diana cried after hearing the worst. “I never saw this Godwin boy, did I? At least I never met him, though he was there yesterday. Have they told his family?”

“The Godwins moved to Worcester many years ago. From what I gather, Alex has lately had only a little contact with them. Someone will go and tell them as soon as the storm subsides, I'm sure—if no one's gone already.”

“I'm very sorry for them. But there won't be much anyone can do.”

Charlotte sensed Diana had gained new compassion as a result of her own loss. Yet something else seemed to carry her on with a nervous intensity.

“That's not exactly right, since it
was
clearly murder. What is Richard doing about it?”

“He's gone with Constable Dudley, to talk to the woman who allowed Alex a room in her house. Then they meant to visit the Sloans, to speak with Martha.”

“The one Lem missed so last summer, while he was in Boston?”

“The same.”

“How is she involved? They can't believe a
woman
would have killed in such a brutal way?”

“I think they would like to be sure Martha gave Lem no cause for jealousy.”

“Oh. And did she?”

“I doubt it.”

“So, nothing really ties Lem to this awful deed, except the hatchet.”

“Left in this…” Charlotte lifted the canvas bag from the floor, where she'd set it when she refreshed the fire. Now she looked at it more carefully, to make sure nothing but the scarf was inside. “It's said it was taken home in error last night—by John Dudley, our new constable.”

“
There
is a man I hardly like. Every time Dudley has been pointed out to me, he's been drunk. What is his wife's name?”

“Rachel.”

“She lost a son a few years ago, didn't she?”

“That's true.”

“Having children can be a terrible thing. It could be, Charlotte, that you were fortunate to have none of your own.”

“I've wished it were otherwise.”

“Oh, of course. You and Aaron could never—”

Charlotte reconsidered Diana's new compassion, before she replied.

“We had little time. Life, like death, seems to come only when nature agrees—”

“Unless it is a case of murder, like what happened to this Godwin boy.
His
death was not ‘natural.’ Nor was it ‘the will of God’—something we must expect, and prepare for—not our fault,
for there was nothing we could have done about it!
But was Charlie's death so very different?

I'm not sure when I will be able to forgive whoever, or whatever, took him from us!”

Tears sprang into Diana's eyes while Charlotte sat quietly, startled by the rage that had finally flashed out. Diana's anger, it seemed, had been set against Heaven itself.

She recalled the young woman as she'd once been: last summer, on the evening of Signor Lahte's recital, regal and confident at the side of a dashing husband in her brother's Boston home—before that, fighting bravely against the smallpox, while Edmund watched—even earlier, playful but determined, setting her sights on the mysterious King's man she now missed, one suspected, more than she would say. Despite her bravery, she'd been deeply wounded.

“Was it all for nothing?” Diana asked, her lips trembling. “At least in the case of this Godwin boy, he must have died for
something!
But our child harmed no one. He was a boy we cherished, and spent
weeks
praying for…”

She sank back, her eyes blazing defiantly. Charlotte asked herself if she should try to soothe, or if Richard's approach wasn't a better one, after all.

“Was it for nothing?” she returned. “You will have to take that up with God or the Devil, when you happen to see one or the other. But are you saying Alex Godwin may have deserved to die? That is unfair, Diana—he was little more than a child himself.”

Diana seemed startled. She forced herself to reconsider.

“You're right, of course. Well, it
does
seem divine justice is rather limited, these days. Perhaps you will let me help you discover a more worldly sort. You do plan to solve this murder?”

“I don't really know how, or if—”

“Bracebridge has need of a Nemesis,” Diana concluded
darkly, recalling one of her brother's stories. “We must both do what we can. This time, at least, we'll have the advice of an attorney. Charlotte—you don't suppose Lem could possibly have done this thing, do you?”

“I see no reason why he would have.”

“Not for love? Or jealousy?”

“I don't think so. Nor, I suppose, do you.”

“He is nearly a man.”

“One with a good deal of sense, and a strong conscience. I've never known him to hurt anyone. At least, not intentionally.”

Had Diana, too, begun to see men as likely to bring trouble, before anything else? If so—poor Edmund!

“We'll forget about Lem, then,” Diana decided charitably. “Who else is capable of it?”

“Of murder?” This was something Charlotte felt it would be better not to ask, for she supposed she knew the answer. “We might ask, instead, who had the opportunity. That might narrow things down a little.”

“But nearly everyone in the village was there by the ice yesterday! And since you found the boy this morning, we can't know when, exactly, it was done. It's a shame no one missed him. Was he usually by himself?”

“It seems so. The only thing he did regularly, that I know of, was visit Boar Island.”

“Tell me again who lives there.”

Charlotte began to explain, and found herself repeating the story of her adventure two days before. Diana gave a scream when she heard of Charlotte's fall into the icy marsh—yet there was a new respect in her eyes while she listened to the rest.

“And you found them
entirely
alone?” she asked at the end, unable to believe something so different from her own experience in Boston.

“They'll remain that way until someone can be found to work for them again. That's why we sent Lem off this morning. I'd hoped he'd be back by now,” she added uneasily, looking out to see snow building up in the barnyard. She thought, too, of the cows. One way or another, they'd have to be milked soon. Perhaps she and Diana?… That gave her a welcome moment of amusement.

“Here's something else I find curious,” she said at length. She described the return of the spoon to Rachel Dudley, and the message she'd received from the children only an hour before, saying that the rest of the missing silver had now been found. In the silence that followed, each came to the same conclusion.

“It
must
have been the husband,” said Diana, with a look of disdain. “A locked cabinet, and nothing else in the house taken? The children are hardly old enough to have become such villains. He probably needed money, and traded the spoons for silver coins. Then, seeing what a fuss he'd raised, he bought them back, and returned them. The Devil, indeed! These are hardly the Dark Ages—even here in Bracebridge.”

“It could be he said that for the children, so they'd not see his hand in it. Rachel blames him, I'm sure.”

“His children might as well know what he is. And the rest of the village, I should think. This is the man who's to investigate the latest outrage to occur here? What a joke it all is!”

Diana's laugh signaled a return of her usual humor, but its edge seemed uncomfortably cutting. Perhaps, thought Charlotte, another glass of fermented cider would do no harm. She rose to pour it.

“I wonder,” she then said, “what business Dudley could have had on the island.”

“I wonder,” Diana countered, “why he took this bag of
yours, which he must have known wasn't his. Though I don't suppose it still held the hatchet, or he would not have sent it back.”

“But he didn't, did he?” Charlotte asked. “Rachel did.”

“Yes, that's true—”

Their thoughts were interrupted by sounds outside. With a rush of relief, Charlotte put down her glass. She walked from the kitchen to the front room, imagining Lem had come from the main road, as she'd done earlier. But before she could cross to the door, it seemed to blow open on its own. Covered with snow, Lem lurched in, pulling the loaded sled. Someone else, white-headed as well, came behind him.

“For pity's sake—!” Charlotte began, as the boards of the sled scraped across the polished floorboards. Then she realized its burden strongly resembled one she and Richard Longfellow had pulled down the hill that morning. Thankfully, this one had a small section of its face exposed, for breathing.

“Sorry! Couldn't be helped—” This came from under a swath of scarf. Lem turned and made sure the door was shut, with the woman who had followed him on the right side of it. And Magdalene Knowles stood looking down at the bundle on the sled, which still had not moved.

I
T'S OLD MRS.
Knowles,” said Lem. Charlotte knelt quickly and pulled the wool away from the pinched face, then put an ear by the partly opened mouth. She heard and felt short, sharp breathing.

“What happened?” she asked. Lem had by now removed his hat and scarf, and stood wondering what to do next.

“She's burned—badly. Her skirts caught fire while no one was with her. By the time I heard her screams, it was nearly too late. It might be yet,” he said in a whisper, for Charlotte had risen to stand beside him.

Diana opened the kitchen door, and gaped at what she saw.

“We'll carry her into the kitchen,” Charlotte decided. “Then run upstairs, Lem, and build a fire in my bedroom—it's the warmest. Diana and I will see to the rest.” She helped Lem lift the slight body of Mrs. Knowles by the blankets surrounding her.

They soon put the bundle down again, beside the
kitchen fire. The change seemed to awaken Catherine; she turned white eyes toward the flames, then raised an arm before her face, as if to save it from the heat. Charlotte took the woman's frail arms, and leaned forward to assure her.

“You're safe here! Catherine, it's Charlotte Willett. You've come to my house. You must stay warm by the fire, while we see to your—”

She quickly swallowed her next words, for on lifting the blankets she'd seen beyond the remains of ancient skirts, matted on top with grease from a succession of meals, below by oils from a body rarely washed. The smell of burned flesh was far worse than the other. Some of that flesh was blistered; more was mottled and weeping, with here and there some red that had been newly torn by writhing, and bits of white where bone showed through.

Lem stood spellbound. Charlotte signaled for him to help Magdalene into a chair across the room. This he did before he left them, his boots ringing on the stairs.

Charlotte knew she and Diana would have to cut away what remained of the skirts, and cleanse as best they could what had suffered beneath them. Only then would they be able to apply a salve and bandages. Fortunately, Catherine's face had been spared. They could look without revulsion at her nearly sightless eyes as they spoke to her. But for how long?

Charlotte went to a chest and removed discarded linen sheets already cut for bandages, as well as a crock of goose fat she'd simmered with house leeks, comfrey, feverfew, and lavender. To her amazement, when she returned to the fire she found that Diana had begun to work efficiently, exposing more and more of the withered body, easing off
bits of wool with warm water from the kettle, poured into a bowl.

The clock by the stairs struck three times, and then they heard knocking on the front door. It went unanswered. In a minute more, a tapping came from outside the kitchen. Orpheus, who had positioned himself at Magdalene's side, let out a growl when it opened.

Astonished by what he'd already glimpsed through the window, Moses Reed entered, taking in the activity at the hearth. When he turned to close the door he saw Magdalene in the dark corner.

Charlotte thought she heard the attorney call the woman's name. Turning, she saw him bend and offer his hand. It was good to see someone talking to her, if it was also a little strange. But she had no time to think further on their apparent acquaintance.

“Mr. Reed?” she called. He came swiftly to her side. “It's Mrs. Knowles, from Boar Island. She suffered an accident there. She's badly burned, as you can see.”

“But how did they get here?”

“Lem brought them. I sent him upstairs to prepare a fire in a bedroom.”

“The boy was on the island when this occurred?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” he answered with a deep frown. “I'd assumed…”

“We sent him to learn if anything might be done for Mrs. Knowles and her companion.”

“No—no—no!” Hearing her name, Catherine had become more aware of her situation. Her chest labored, and she began to gasp.

“What can I do?” asked Charlotte, leaning closer.

“Nothing,” the old woman managed in a whisper. It
seemed she suffered from fluid rising in her lungs—perhaps she was even drowning. Diana positioned a pillow beneath the thin shoulders. Breathing more quietly, Catherine formed a few words with great effort.

“I stood—but saw nothing—” Then came a desperate cry, as if she were reliving her fall into the fire.

“I have something to calm her,” Charlotte said softly to Moses Reed.

“Opium, I hope?”

“Given to me by Noah Willett.”

“Ah, yes. The sea captain.”

“It should bring her sleep, at least. Under the circumstances, I think we need not worry about anything else.”

“I would agree,” said Reed. They watched Diana apply salve to a piece of linen, and set it gently in place.

“There seems little chance she'll last the night,” Reed added.

“But we'll try, with what we have on hand. We must.”

“Call me if she speaks again. I'll go and talk with Lem.”

The lawyer left them. Soon, over the whistling wind, Charlotte and Diana again heard the sound of boots stomping. Without further preamble, the door opened. This time, Orpheus let out a single bark.

Richard Longfellow came in with a blast of cold. Behind him trailed Christian Rowe. No doubt they'd expected to find warmth and calm, once they'd escaped from the swirling menace of the storm. What they saw made them stop quite suddenly, and stare.

“Carlotta?” asked Longfellow.

“It's Catherine Knowles. That is Magdalene Knowles
behind you. Lem brought them here after an accident,” she added quietly, so that Longfellow had to bend close to hear.

“Dear God!” he then exclaimed, his face contorting. “Where is he?” he asked, after he'd pulled back.

“Upstairs, warming a bedroom.”

“Constable Dudley left us to stop at the inn, but he's on his way here to speak to the boy,” Christian Rowe announced. Charlotte's glance showed she believed this to be a thing of little importance at the moment.

“Have you seen burns this severe before?” Again she nearly whispered to Longfellow, supposing that Magdalene and Rowe would not hear her.

“No. But I don't see how she can survive them.”

“Nor do I.”

“You say that is Mrs. Knowles there?” Rowe inquired, after he'd made himself more presentable in the small mirror.

“She's in great discomfort,” Charlotte replied, hoping he would take the hint.

Rowe held himself aloof. He had little use for illness, which he suspected lay before him. Always, it was a thing he found others to attend to.

“This lady has never made herself known to me, and I think she has little time for religion, or for our village. Nor have I met Miss Knowles, though of course I have heard of her situation. Madam, how do
you
do?”

Magdalene, still encased in her cloak, blinked and drew back further.

Longfellow supposed Rowe had been offended. He wondered himself if Magdalene might be mute. Perhaps she was merely stunned, or tired. Certainly the lady had
good cause, for she must have walked several miles that morning.

He went and knelt before the perplexed woman, holding out his hands. She stared briefly into his eyes, as she'd done with the attorney. Then she looked down to her feet, and he took it upon himself to unlace her boots. She waited like a child, and finally stood to allow him to take her cloak.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked. “Are you hungry?” She shook her head to this, but then said her first words since she'd entered the house.

“May I have a cup of tea?”

“Of course. Rowe, what do you suppose Lem and Reed are doing upstairs?” The minister wondered himself, and left them.

“Now,” said Longfellow, “there is the can of tea, Miss Knowles, and here is the pot. I presume you know what to do with them. I will watch, and talk with you a little, if I may. It was a long walk here, was it not? Are you tired? Would you prefer to lie down upstairs?”

“I often walk,” Magdalene answered. Longfellow decided that she had received much benefit from it. “I am not tired.” Neither was she bent or weak, he saw. In body, she seemed a healthy woman.

“There,” said Diana, rising wearily to her feet. “At least all of it is covered. I'll take the teapot, Richard, and see to Miss Knowles.”

Amazed, her brother allowed her to take the vessel he still held. It appeared that Diana's brief encounter with motherhood had changed her significantly—and her time as a nurse, he reminded himself with a twinge. Having something of importance to do now might be balm for her own bruised spirit.

Looking through a window at the snow, he observed that the light was nearly gone. Considering the worsening weather, he then asked himself if the constable would appear, after all.

He soon had his answer.