A Mischief in the Snow (23 page)

“Then you weren't told their secret either. I feel just a little better, Jonathan.”

“I'm glad. No one, as you say, has told me anything—
but now that I've examined my records, I realize a large number of our neighbors have given me shillings in payment for old bills, though silver has become difficult to find. It seems I now hold many pounds of counterfeit coins— enough to pray it's not confiscated one day! I feared to have it melted down, let alone to pass it on—though I'm sure I've already done so unwittingly. Is this… is this something you feel strongly about, Captain Montagu?”

“We shall have to see. Have you anything else to tell us, sir?”

“I will think very carefully, Captain, and let you know,” Jonathan answered. “But how did you gentlemen discover it?”

“I'll tell you later,” said Longfellow. “One evening, while we share a bottle or two of something rare and mellow, from your cellar.”

“I will be delighted to provide just the thing.”

“Good. Now, I've thought of another question or two, which I shall put to one of your clients. If you will excuse me?”

Slowly, Longfellow put his shilling back into a pocket, unwound his long legs, and rose. He made his way to a table by the fire, where Jack Pennywort had planted himself not long before. Already, it seemed, the small man was in his cups. He gave the approaching selectman a nearly toothless grin.

“I was hoping to see you here, sir, for I've read all of it now!” said Jack. “A lively place Otranto is, too. Full of wonders, and interesting Science.”

“Science, Jack? How is that?” Longfellow asked with some surprise.

“Well, Mr. Flint and Mr. Tinder have told me that's what must lie under most of the things the book sets out, after all. And I agreed with them, as I don't suppose you'd
have anything to do with the kind of foolishness this
seems
to be, sir, not unless there was something real and true beneath it. Maybe you will explain to us at the tavern, one day. Gunpowder, I suppose, is involved—and perhaps brimstone, as before?”

Jack paused to chortle, for he'd recalled an unusual event of three years ago, in which he'd been a central character. “That was very good of you, sir, and it was then I first wished I had more learning myself—for it can be a useful thing, I see now. I was double pleased when you lent me that book to read, and offered to pay me for the privilege! Only I think, if you would be so kind, sir, you need not trouble my wife with the rest of what's been promised. You might save yourself some steps, if you will, and give it directly to me.”

Jack sat up, attempting to look steady and responsible, while his moist eyes continued to weave.

“Well…” Longfellow hesitated. He'd not been unmoved by the praise he'd heard. In fact, he felt a little ashamed of himself for what he'd asked of the small man before him. An education was, after all, a privilege, and not one to be taken lightly, or mocked in its absence. Still, had Pennywort seen fit, recently, to share what
he
knew, concerning certain local activities?

“How would you like it then, Jack? In shillings, I suppose. But what kind of shillings?”

“What kind, sir?”

“The regular ones? Or would you prefer some that are a little heavier and softer? Those that are, like yourself, of local manufacture?”

After a few moments, Jack jumped—for the information had taken its time reaching his brain. Only a cunning instinct for survival kept him from babbling what he knew.

“Have they got a mint now, in Boston?” he finally asked with a sweet, inquiring look.

“I don't think so. However, there may be a new one open out on Boar Island.”

“That
would
be curious, wouldn't it, sir?” Jack answered with a crooked smile.

“It would indeed. You're not going to tell me, are you, Jack? Even for your last payment?”

This made the other man consider carefully. He licked his lips, as he imagined the additional spirits he might buy over the next several hours. Then a look of resolve crept over his face. He shook his head, and clamped his lips together.

“Hmm,” Longfellow responded, pleased in spite of himself. “But tell me this, Jack. Why did no one tell me? Was it because I'm a selectman? Or do you mistrust me for another reason?”

“Well, you see…” Jack looked as if he were trying to remember the honest truth. Longfellow waited patiently, supposing this to be a rather rare occurrence. “You see,” Jack decided at last, “it's because we
do
trust you, sir. You are a man we all respect—and we expect you to do what's right. It's what I feel in all of our dealings, for you've never been unfair with me, even if you do come to us from Boston. I feel the same about Mrs. Willett, who I know I wronged once—but she forgave me, didn't she? She's a good, honest lady. But that's another reason why we never told you. For we thought then
she
might find out, as well.”

“About the shillings?”

“About whatever it is you may mean, Mr. Longfellow, sir.”

“Yes…”

“And it wasn't your being a selectman, sir. For most of
them
do
know, and in fact joined right in! With whatever you may be imagining.”

“Ah-ha! That is interesting. Well, let it never be said I took advantage of a man over a glass of—what is that you've got there, Jack?”

“Rum, sir! Today it is rum, for I remembered a seaman once told me it will ward off anything. And that is how I plan to continue, as long as I can afford it,” he finished bravely.

“Rum, then, it will be, until this fails… or you do.” Once more, Longfellow retrieved the tainted shilling, and set it down on the table. Giving the matter a second thought, he picked it up and replaced it with another of full value.

“What we remember, Jack,” he said seriously, “is worth more than silver, or gold. Remembrances of friends, of kindnesses, of love—even of shameless flattery. All of these retain real value, I think, in the midst of chaos.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Longfellow, sir!” Jack cried as he raised an arm, summoning the young lady from Framingham, who came immediately.

R
ICHARD LONGFELLOW STOOD
for a moment on the snowy road, watching the others return to his home. Captain Montagu, he felt, would only be a hindrance in what he planned to do next. And he could see Charlotte had another idea of her own, though she only admitted she'd go and ask Hannah about her sciatica, while Lem saw his young lady.

Longfellow raised his scarf and began to walk into the brisk west wind, hoping to catch a ride. Before long he had his wish. Once over the bridge, he strode to the north on the road to Concord; this soon took him to the swinging sign of the Blue Boar.

The air inside was full of warmth and talk, but the latter ceased when Longfellow entered. He was not a regular here, and when he did come in, others might ask why. Yet he supposed word had circulated concerning the tenuous state of the village secret—now that he'd begun to look into other affairs connected with Boar Island. The tavern's patrons would ask themselves what he knew…
much as he had wondered about them in weeks gone by. Good! Better to fish in troubled waters. Doubt might soften their resolve, eventually helping the truth to burst out like—well, like the thing he'd observed on John Dudley's stump of a neck.

Anticipated success put a smile on the selectman's face, which he imagined gave most of those watching additional discomfort. When the time was ripe, he would pounce. Until then he would wait like one of his cats, and watch for further developments.

Phineas Wise came toward him between the tables, carrying a jug of ale.

“Good day to you, Mr. Longfellow. Have you come to see how we do in the other half of the village this morning? After our little snow?”

“Good day, Mr. Wise. Half of the village is on my mind, I admit. Due to the weather… and a few other things I've been looking into.”

“Would you like something to warm you? I'm about to make flannel.”

“At your stove?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

They made their way past the fire where Flint and Tinder seemed to be reading their newspapers, though this Longfellow doubted. As he passed, new smoke rose up from their pair of long clay pipes, yet their eyes would not meet his.

“Gentlemen,” he said as he went by. In return, he received startled grunts, and a rattling of pages.

In a tiny space built onto the main room, Phineas had a cast-iron stove blazing. Onto its top he set a pan, taken from a board crammed with several others. Into the pan
he poured the contents of the pitcher which was, in fact, a dark brown ale of strong fragrance.

“What do you know of this shilling business?” Longfellow asked. Wise paused to look up, his eyes steady as he considered.

“All that I need to know. Pass me four eggs from that basket behind you.” Longfellow obliged. He watched the lean and rawboned fellow crack the eggs into a bowl, then beat in several spoons of sugar.

“You've taken them and said nothing?”

“As often as the next man. I'm not constable this year, as I was the last. So I felt no need to look further.”

“They didn't tell you?”

“They know that I know, and I leave it at that. I don't think,” Wise continued as he began to grate a furrowed nutmeg, “it's as well planned as you might suppose. Things of a hidden nature expand, if there's no one to stop them.” He took up a smaller gray jug, and poured a cup of dark rum into his spicy mixture.

“Just how many
are
in on this, would you say?”

“Two dozen? Perhaps more. Few with much to lose, I'd say.”

“And who, Phineas, is behind it? Do you know that?”

“I've overheard enough to guess. But I suggest you go out yourself, and hear what you can.”

Seeing the ale on the stove steaming, the landlord poured a little into the bowl, stirring quickly with a large spoon to keep the eggs from curdling.

“I doubt I'd learn the time of day talking with your customers this morning, Phineas. As you already suspect.”

Wise smiled at that, for it was true. He poured the rest of the ale into the bowl and blended it thoroughly.

“From what I can tell,” said Longfellow, “the shillings are coming from Boar Island. And John Dudley, constable or not, has something to do with it. Where is he, by the way? Still upstairs, sleeping amidst his fumes?”

“Gone. Got up early—ate some cold pork and gravy from that pot there, while I was up a ladder pulling down snow drifted over the door. When I came back in, he was finishing a bottle two gentlemen abandoned last evening, telling me I could hardly charge him for what another had left behind!”

“And?”

“I could, and did. He gave me this for the night, and a small debt built up over the past week.” Reaching onto the shelf above the stove, Wise took down a shilling and handed it over. Longfellow brought it close to his eye.

“Like those given to Jonathan, and Nathan Browne.”

“I should think so.” Wise poured the rest of the pan's mixture into the bowl, then poured the concoction back into the hot pan. A moment later it had returned to the bowl. This process was continued until the liquid became smooth and glossy.

“There,” said the landlord, when he was satisfied. “A yard of flannel, as they say, to warm the stomach and the heart.”

Longfellow picked up a glass from a shelf, wiped it with no fear of offending his reasonable host, and allowed it to be filled. The drink was as smooth as silk, and pleasant on the tongue.

“I just spoke with another of your regular clients,” he told Phineas a moment later. “Up at the inn.”

“Who was that?”

“Jack Pennywort.”

“Just as well,” said the landlord. “He'll hear less there to cause damage, should he repeat it.”

“I take it, then, you hope this secret won't come out?”

“There's little hope of that.
How
it comes out concerns me. When it does, will they all begin to nip at one another like dogs, trying to stay on top? Will this business with Godwin and Old Cat Knowles enter into it, and bring us even worse? I only know I wouldn't want to be the man who informs on all the rest.”

“That's what someone else recently told me.”

“Well, she's right. My business is a rough one. Some farmers come in here feeling barely Christian. They may leave in worse shape. I've even heard it said the young man's death may have been the best thing for us all.”

“A cold thought.”

“It's been a cold year for many, as you know. Even before the snows.”

Longfellow recalled his earlier sympathy for his neighbors’ struggles, increasing with each new season.

“What do you know of Boar Island, Phineas?”

“I know it's a rock set in a marsh. Now it appears to be something worse. A good place to stay away from, I should think.”

“It might be, at that,” said Longfellow. Despite another sip of flannel and the warmth from the stove, he felt a chill as he contemplated a visit of his own.

AFTER HE'D HELPED
Charlotte to a fireside chair in Hannah Sloan's kitchen, Lem Wainwright set down a basket that contained fresh milk and cream, and a packet of cheesecloth filled with dried hop flowers. Hannah looked to her daughter Martha. She alone among her sisters and brothers had stayed indoors this morning, no doubt hoping for a visit.

“Take this bag, Mattie,” said her mother. “Pour boiling
water over it, and let it brew—then squeeze it out for me. I can hardly move today, for the pain!”

Martha found a bowl and began to do as she'd been told, then took what she'd made to a table across the room. Lem followed, admiring her second-best petticoat, and curls the color of ground ginger tucked under a nearly transparent cap. Orpheus, too, went to sniff at the hops, and sneezed at their unpleasant odor. The couple sat and gave a conspiratorial look back toward the fire.

“They're not holding you, then?” Mattie asked, fingering a ribbon at her ear.

“Well, not exactly,” said Lem. For the first time in days, he felt at peace. It was not to last. “Though I am staying with Mr. Longfellow. And I'm still not supposed to go out on my own.”

“Good,” said Mattie. “We'll all know where you are, for a change. I've been hearing stories…”

“What kind of stories?”

“On Sunday, after the sermon, a girl I know who lives north of the village told me she'd seen you up there last week.”

“That's not so strange, is it? My parents live north of here, you know. And my brothers and sisters.”

“Whom you rarely visit, as you've told me yourself.”

“Sometimes I do. Occasionally Mrs. Willett gives me something to take to them.”

“When, exactly, was the last time that happened?”

“A while ago,” said Lem, praying it would be enough. He stuck a finger into the bowl that held the poultice— and withdrew it suddenly, hissing his discomfort.

“It's not as hot as all that,” said Mattie. “I should think you'd be used to hot water, by now.” She lowered her own hand into the water to move the cheesecloth around, but withdrew it immediately. “There,” she said,
biting her lower lip in a way the boy found most attractive. “We'll let that sit. But she also said,” the young woman continued, sliding easily back to her first subject, “that you'd passed her without a word, and even turned away—as if you didn't want anyone to know you were there. Why, I wonder, was that?”

“Who was it?”

“I'll not tell you. I can keep secrets of my own.”

“Oh,” he returned unhappily. “I'll tell you this, if you would like to know. It's not much good keeping a secret, Mattie. It's far better to have none in the first place.”

“That, I'm sure, is true,” she sighed. “Especially between people who are married.”

“Married?”

“Yes, as an example.”

“I'd not keep anything from you, Mattie. If we were ever—”

“To marry?”

“Well, as an example.”

His smile, she thought, had become almost witless. Perhaps she had baited him too long. When his hand felt for hers behind the bowl, she let him take it.

Meanwhile, by the fire, the two women glanced over. They said nothing of what they saw, but returned to their own quiet conversation.

“I was sorry to hear about the Godwin boy, of course,” said Hannah. “Still, I doubt he's much of a loss to his parents, if they sent him away from Worcester.”

“Did they? Why do you suppose that was?” asked Charlotte.

“Samuel says he got himself into some sort of trouble. When they managed to get him out of it, he came here to start over.
That
didn't work out well. Some are born bad, it seems to me.”

“There's something else I came to talk about,” said Charlotte, not wanting to make a judgment on the information she'd just received. “It's something you'll find irritating.”

The larger woman tilted her red face, putting her best ear forward. “Just what I need to distract me. What now?”

“It seems there's been a scheme of sorts going on in the village, perhaps for some time. It's one many of the men have organized, and neglected to mention to the rest of us.”

“There's little news in that!” Hannah leaned back and gave a groan; her hand then went to her lower back to give it a rub. “Not here, nor anywhere else in the world. When have they
not
conspired to have things their own way, at our expense? Though I'm fond of a few of them, I can't say I've trusted any man for years…”

“But this is something rather unusual.” Charlotte supposed, too, that what she was about to divulge would end this particular problem within their little society—if events took their normal course.

“It's not about the spoons, is it?” asked Hannah suddenly. “Have you found out what's behind all of that?”

“Yes. I have.”

Hannah's heavy bosom began to heave. Eagerly, she waited for more.

“It seems several of our neighbors have been filching silver from their wives. And pewter, too…”

“Yes… go on.”

“… melting the objects down, then bringing them back.”

“Back? How?”

“As counterfeit coins.”

“Ahhh!” cried Hannah. She rocked back, causing her nerves to issue a new pang. She winced but otherwise
ignored it, for she'd begun to imagine something far more painful.