A Mischief in the Snow (22 page)

S
INCE NEW PATHS
through the snow had by now been made in much of the village, Longfellow and Captain Montagu had no difficulty escorting Mrs. Willett to the circular drive before the Bracebridge Inn, and on to the smithy beyond the carriage house.

Smoke signified that Nathan Browne was hard at work. Little wonder, thought Charlotte, for this was his busiest season. She often visited the place, but avoided his shop when most farmers brought in their tools and plows to be mended and sharpened for spring. Frequently they stayed far longer than they needed to, conversing and enjoying the warmth.

Today Nathan had only one customer, who wished to pay for the sharpening of a pair of shovels and a pick he'd brought in a few days before. He left them behind, however, for he'd come with neither horse nor wagon. In something of a rush, he lifted his hat and hurried out, as soon as the new party came through the door.

“A very good day,” the blacksmith said, adding coins
to those in a pocket that already bulged and jingled. “The snow seems to have made men feel generous.”

“Why do you suppose that is, Nathan?” asked Longfellow.

The muscular smith pulled a heavy hood over the fire to slow it. He approached his visitors with a questioning look of his own.

“I don't know,” he answered. “But I wonder if you have an idea, sir?”

“How much have you taken in recently?”

“Of that I'm not sure—but far more than usual. I'm often paid after harvest, for as you know, farmers are always behind. And yet, since yesterday morning, several have come to pay their debts, and a few have even advanced a little cash for future services! Silver has been pouring into my pockets.” He gave the coins another jingle and laughed out loud.

“Most of it in shillings?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if you weren't the only one having luck today.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I doubt,” Charlotte said, “that Nathan
would
know, Richard. After all, he's the first person you'd be expected to ask. Isn't he too obvious?”

“Asked about what?” The smith rolled down his sleeves, for the atmosphere had cooled.

“We've only come to ask for your help, if you'll give it,” Longfellow replied. “Something unlawful has been occupying the village, of which only a few are unaware. This makes it necessary for me to suspect even those I consider my friends, at least until I find some answers. Would you mind if I took a look at those shillings of yours?”

The smith reached into his pocket. He then set the
coins down on a nearby bench, and spread them with a quick movement of his strong fingers.

One by one, Longfellow picked out silver that far outweighed a few coppers, and took it to the window. Looking for information of another sort, Edmund Montagu walked around the shop, observing implements that hung along the walls.

“Mrs. Willett?” Nathan appealed. He pulled a keg forward and offered it as a seat. “This has nothing to do with the boy's death, I hope?” he asked suddenly.

“All eleven shillings are counterfeit,” Longfellow announced, setting them on the sill.

“What?” Nathan cried. “What is that you say?”

“Several of our neighbors appear to be less scrupulous than we about the law,” replied the selectman. The captain approached with his pocket lens and made his own examination.

“How do you know this?” Nathan asked warily. Edmund Montagu handed him the lens, so that the smith could take a better look himself.

“By the shine within the false mill marks,” Longfellow said helpfully. “And, if you would care to bite down on one, you'll find it somewhat softer than you'd expect.”

“I would have to agree,” Nathan said eventually. “But you say you have no idea who to suspect?”

“That may not be entirely true—you're the first I've questioned. No suspicions of anything else unusual? None of your customers has dropped a hint?”

“Many men come in here, of course. But I work alone while they pass the time of day with one another. Since I came to this village no more than a few years ago, there are things they won't tell me—not yet. I've often been glad of it, for it frees me to think my own thoughts, and keep my own council.”

“That is an advantage,” Longfellow agreed, having long enjoyed the same benefit. “But you might tell us this: in your opinion, would such a moneymaking scheme be difficult to accomplish? What tools would be required, and what sort of talent?”

“As for the tools, plenty of farmers have small forges; they often make and mend things at home. And you're right about a need for talent. Ordinary coins, I believe, are pressed from sheets of silver. Here, someone seems to have poured them into a finely etched mold, most likely one of steel. I myself might have suggested one with room to make several coins at each pouring. I expect inferior metal—pewter, by the look of it—was added to the silver, once that was well melted. The marks along the edges, now, seem to be cut with some sort of small knife; but they're not quite alike from coin to coin, are they? So perhaps more than one man was involved in that tedious job.”

“As we, too, suspect. Does anyone come to mind as a possible candidate for casting these things?”

“Well, now! To begin with, your friend Mr. Revere can tell you that even a master silversmith such as he may not be much of an etcher. That is something a man is born to—like being able to paint, or carry a tune. Even after working at it for years, a master may do no better at the task than a promising lad.”

“You think, then, that a young man—?”

“Who knows? He would surely need to know how to handle a firebox and bellows. But with a little practice, silver isn't difficult to pour, for it melts with less heat than iron, which
is
hard to work. That's the reason most of us buy iron bars and rods of different sizes. Then, we need only heat them to the point where they can be hammered out.”

“That's some help—”

“Beyond anything else,” Nathan decided, “I think your man would need a delicate, steady hand to make his faces. And to etch several, he'd need to spend a great deal of time, probably for little reward. He would surely make more at honest labor, if he'd only apprentice himself. Unless, for some reason, he was unable to do so? He—or perhaps she?” he asked, looking to Charlotte.

That was a possibility, and one she'd overlooked.

“An interesting idea,” said Longfellow. “Yet unlikely. The women of the village have been carefully kept from hearing of this endeavor—by their own husbands. Where do you think something like this could be carried out, Nathan?”

“Not in the village, I would agree. Or neighbors would see the frequent smoke, and then, wouldn't one of the women have gone to see? Nor along the main roads, I should think…”

“How about Boar Island?”

“Now there's an interesting thought. Somewhere Alex Godwin went quite often.” The smith considered the idea. “Do you think he's been doing this?”

“No—though it could be someone he knew, and planned to expose. Mrs. Willett found a silver spoon near the island's landing a few days ago, something with no more business there than she. This spoon was stolen from John Dudley's wife, with several others like it.”

“Trouble for someone! What does Dudley have to say?”

“I plan to ask that, the next time I see him. But you're sure you've heard no gossip? No suggestion of anything improper going on?”

“Sir, if you were to ask me to come and tell you of everything of that sort that's said in this place, I would
take up far too much of your valuable time. But about these coins, no.”

“Well, you have your business to attend to. But I thank you for your thoughts, Nathan. And please—don't make this common knowledge just yet.”

“I promise you I'll keep my eyes open and my lips shut,” said the blacksmith.

“That would be appreciated. I think we'd better leave you now, or you're likely to get no more visitors today.”

“The shillings?” asked the smith uncomfortably, looking toward the window sill.

“Evidence, I suppose.” Longfellow turned to the captain who'd thus far kept silent, though he'd listened carefully to all that had been said.

“Hold onto them,” Edmund said flatly, surprising them all. “Some day, if you wish, you might sell them for the silver. But don't spend them. Accept any others you're given, and put the names of those who've had them into your head.”

“I won't guarantee I'll be able to keep them there,” the smith replied.

“But such knowledge could be useful one day, if it helps us to identify a murderer.”

“That's hardly something one can overlook, like a pocketful of queer coins, is it?…”

Nathan Browne watched them leave, then whistled softly as he went back to uncover his waiting forge.

W
ALKING ONLY A
little further, they came to the kitchen door of the inn and entered noisily, clearing their boots of snow. Elizabeth turned from the wide hearth to exclaim at the intrusion. She then greeted the arrivals as neighbors and friends, while her daughter Rebecca made a curtsy.

“What may I do for you, sirs? A pie for your dinner? I have some fresh made, of beef and kidney—”

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” said Longfellow, “but it's the landlord we've come to see today. I'm sorry to make a corridor of your kitchen—”

“Don't apologize, sir! It's good to see you all, though Captain, your return is a
special
pleasure. Is it not, Mrs. Willett?”

Charlotte reddened, but did not deny they both enjoyed the sight of this handsome officer in military coat and breeches, whose high black boots and gold buttons shone impressively in the firelight.

Once again, Longfellow pondered a curious fact.

Though the village had little respect for most members of the British military establishment (hardly surprising since they'd followed so many blockheads during the last war) it did seem to crave the approval of this one, a son of an English lord who had married, if not quite one of their own, at least something of a compatriot. As to his sister's ambiguous reputation in the village, Longfellow had little doubt.

“Possibly,” he added, “you'll be able to feed the captain at the inn soon enough. My house has become a little crowded, of late.”

“So I hear,” said Elizabeth, giving the captain a new look, full of pity. “To have Mrs. Montagu come to us again, only to find all of this! First the lad, and now an old dame she tended herself, right up to the end! Shocking, that is. I do hope your brave wife is well this morning, Captain?”

“She is, madam. I will tell her you asked.”

“Oh, she would not wish to know—! But I thank you, sir.” The modest woman lowered her head to hide a blush, and kept it so until the others had gone on.

A visit to the taproom showed nothing unusual this quiet morning, except that the place did seem strangely brightened by the new snow, some piled up along the windowsills. Tim, the message boy, sat enjoying a day on which no one, as yet, had asked him to venture out. At a sign from Longfellow, he came to the table as the three sat down.

“Would you know where Mr. Pratt is this morning?”

Tim nodded, his eyes examining the party as he tried to decide what they had come for at this hour. Most in the room were travelers who had little interest in continuing until the roads improved, and instead nursed warming drinks after their large breakfasts.

“He's in his office, sir, working the figures for year's end. Good morning, Mrs. Willett. Glad to see you again, Captain.”

“If he can be bothered, you might tell him we would like a word about another financial matter.”

“A financial matter?” Tim repeated, still curious.

“Exactly.”

“Yes, sir. Then I'll go and see.” Wasting no more time, the boy left with his usual dispatch.

“Your welcome holds, it seems,” Longfellow said to Edmund Montagu. “I wonder how long it will last.”

“Oh, I'm sure they'll all despise me soon enough, as most in Boston do.”

“Has it been difficult, Edmund?” asked Longfellow, a touch more sympathy in his manner.

“The patriots of Boston are always difficult, Richard. Yet I must say that I now begin to doubt the motives and methods of my own side, as well.”

A young woman, newly arrived from Framingham in search, Longfellow suspected, of a husband, came to serve them.

As she approached her skirts swayed gently, and her expression was especially welcoming to the gentlemen. This Charlotte noted briefly, before her attention returned to Edmund's weary face.

“Punch,” Longfellow said abruptly. The young woman retreated. “Recently I've been somewhat lax,” he went on, “in following the news from town. Have things worsened so much?”

“That depends on what you mean. Since August, of course, nearly everyone who's taken a position has cried out against the stamps; Bernard is now governor in name only. I've heard he doubts he could command ten men in the town. I believe he's right.”

“That would depend on what they were wanted for.”

“Well, the militia can't be raised. The man they call ‘Captain’ McIntosh has been released from custody, yet everyone agrees it was he who led the mob that destroyed the lieutenant governor's home this summer—for which Hutchinson has yet to receive a penny! It seems some have decided that if McIntosh is tried, the Liberty Boys must tear down the custom house. At the moment, it contains some six thousand pounds of the King's sterling.
That
, I'm sure, would never be seen again.”

“Perhaps not. But with Boston ordered closed to shipping for six weeks, it did seem only a matter of time before starvation might—”

“Starvation!
It would have been many months before your gouty friends felt a pinch in anything but their waistcoats! Their wallets are another matter. Most cried famine when they saw docking fees for their sitting ships rise, though
all
they needed to do to clear them was agree to buy the blasted stamps! Don't forget, we in Britain have had to purchase the things ourselves, for a number of years.”

“Yes, but the problem is, we
here
have not. For good reason—”

“And it is largely a means for financing the troops stationed on your western borders, where the French might still—”

“That is your affair now, since the King has ordered
we
may no longer settle west of the mountains.”

“Legally, that is correct—but whom does it stop? Hordes continue to go there anyway, against all sense.”

“Bracebridge is close enough to the frontier for my own taste, as well. But let us both be reasonable, Edmund. We hear Mr. Oliver, the Stamp Distributor, has resigned; the stamps are still out in Castle William, and in fact
Parliament has
yet
to send us copies of the Act officially— making this little more than a French farce!”

The serving maid arrived with a flounce and put down her tray, then set out glasses and a hot jug. Longfellow quickly gave her a coin, but no further reason to stay. Dropping the payment beneath her neck scarf, she smiled nonetheless.

“I can't argue with you there,” said Montagu when she'd left them. “Frankly, I've come to believe both sides are equally ridiculous in the way they behave. Every official in Boston seems to fear upsetting his own boat—and so the governor sends the stamp question to his Council, which forwards it to the judges of the Superior Court, who decline to sit and defer to the House of Representatives. These gentlemen consult the townsmen, who speak with their lawyers, who wish the judges first to give advice before they risk their licenses. But the judges will not meet until they are scheduled to do so some time in March— and so it all starts over again! This has been thrown from one hand to another like a hot ingot, while the town hopes someone,
anyone
, will decide what is or is not legal, or at least what Parliament may accept. A loss of respect for all authority, I'm very sure, will be the consequence. I can tell you it's a thing I've begun to feel myself, with my own home put in jeopardy.”

“Perhaps you take it too much to heart, Edmund,” said Longfellow as he raised his glass. “After all, no one has yet been hanged—except in effigy. There is, after all, a comic side.”

“Oh, yes. The strategy of the Attorney General of Massachusetts, your old friend Trowbridge, is particularly amusing.”

“What has he done now?”

“For weeks he ducked the issue of how, or if, the courts
might legally do business, with stamps unavailable for their documents. Finally he had a friend pay a visit to Town House. There it was explained that due to rheumatism of the arm and shoulder—on the right side—the Attorney General had been forced to abandon all business, as he can no longer sign his own name!”

“And you don't think?…”

“Do you?”

“No,” Longfellow said amiably. “I suppose I don't.”

“But perhaps you're right. Friends inform me a growing number of Whigs at home speak out against this business of taxing the colonies, at least for general revenue.”

“And since we all suppose the Whigs will regain power some day soon, it seems preferable to have friends among that party, rather than the thanks of an ungrateful king… whose health is questionable.”

“The reality is, the port is again operating as usual. So your men have already won. The remainder of the courts will soon be opened, as well.”

“Without the stamps.”

“Without the stamps. I, for one, look for the repeal of the Act in the spring.”

“Perhaps,” said Charlotte, catching the men by surprise, “this might have some bearing on our own problem. Of the shillings, I mean.”

“How so, Mrs. Willett?” asked Longfellow.

“If the governor and his men, and our own legislators and judges, have all avoided their duties, and overlooked the law… then can the men of Bracebridge be made to pay too dearly for doing much the same?”

“But here,” Longfellow retorted with a new uneasiness, “surely, it is different. When a whole town participates in illegal activity such as this, and when they have acted against—against—”

“You?” asked Montagu. He smiled suddenly, pleased to see the shoe on another foot. “It does seem that you have been hoodwinked, Richard, by much of Bracebridge. Though perhaps Reverend Rowe is also in the dark. That may be of some comfort.”

“Delightful company,” Longfellow replied with a grimace.

“Oh, I think there are quite a few others,” Charlotte reminded them. “Remember the ladies…”

“Well, yes,” Longfellow admitted.

“The real question,” said Montagu, “is this: what will happen if we throw a large portion of Bracebridge onto a legal system that barely functions? We can no more do this, than Bernard can afford to do what he really wishes to do as governor. He recently believed that the people of Boston were his worst enemy. Now, my sources assure me country men may be even more ready for violence, if the stamp issue is pressed further. Should things worsen, some say, they will refuse to accept Britain's sovereignty entirely!”

The rest had been considered with a sense of amusement on one side or the other; this was a sobering thought. Such a declaration might lead, after all, to a state of open warfare.

“The issues are heady ones,” said Longfellow slowly. “And they're likely to cause passions to become over-strong. But when chaos becomes the acknowledged tool of politicians, and punishment becomes impossible, what do we call the thing we're left with, I wonder?”

Then, they saw Jonathan Pratt, who apparently had troubles of his own.

“Good morning, good morning… good morning,” said the rotund man as he approached them. A hand went to his bulging waistcoat, as if he'd suffered a twinge of dyspepsia.

“Hello, Jonathan,” Longfellow said airily. “How are you today?”

“Not well. The recent excitement has affected my digestion.”

“To which excitement do you refer?”

“The idea that there may well be a murderer in our midst!”

“Of course. Yet rest assured we will get to the bottom of it. At the moment, there is a slight delay—but soon, soon we will begin to move forward. Perhaps by then we'll have sorted out another little matter.”

“You and the captain… have found something else that concerns you?” the landlord asked hesitantly. “Something that goes on in Boston?”

“Partly in Boston, yes. But I believe the root of our trouble is here.”

“Here?”
asked Jonathan, his voice strangely hollow.

“Not on this very spot, no. But then again, it's difficult to say. Especially when one has been told very little.”

“I see. Or shall I say, you see? Ha, ha. I myself scarcely know any of the details that might help you. But have you proof?” he asked, suddenly inspired.

“Of a sort.” Longfellow took the shilling he'd found from his pocket, and held it before the landlord's shifting eye. “Would you care to examine it?”

“No need,” Jonathan said slowly. “For I've found many others in my strongbox, while counting up my profits. They are all rather soft, it seems. When I attempted to use one to pry off the frozen cap of my inkwell some days ago, it bent. I might have told you, Richard—but would the knowledge have done more harm than good?”