A Mischief in the Snow (31 page)

The selectman walked a few feet further and turned to face the road, keeping his back to the rest.

A thaw continued to warm the air, but he knew it
would be months before the roads would be entirely clear. The village would see other freezes and dangerous ice; further storms would force them to depend on one another, as they scrambled to dig their way out. That was the way of winter—it was the way of life.

Sometimes, little things could happen to make one glad to be a part of it all. Something like that was happening behind him now, he suspected, for he heard the pleasing sound of silver on silver, more or less, as the pile of coins mounted. Many of his neighbors turned and passed before him, starting down the road with furtive nods, bolder bows, even tips of their hats, set back atop their ridiculous, rustic wigs.

What they had done had been audacious, brazen, shameless—and it proved they had no love for overweening authority. In the end, what he'd uncovered made Longfellow a little proud of living among these unruly and resourceful villagers, after all.

T
HE BRIEF WINTER
day was done. In Richard Longfellow's.study, the ormolu clock beneath the Venetian mirror struck the hour of five.

Charlotte glanced quickly to the glass. This was something he had observed her to do for several days, when she supposed no one saw. Had she grown vain? Or did she consult the thing to see if someone crept up unexpectedly?

At least, most of what had threatened the village lately was now put to rest or to flight, thought Longfellow. Once again a villain—this time an unfortunate one, whose loss would be regretted—had left them. He'd rarely thought of Ned Bigelow before. Perhaps, he told himself, he should take time to become better acquainted with the other village lads, who seemed to grow like stalks of corn. At least he might try.

At the moment, though, he planned to enjoy the end to this latest flurry of unwanted activity. It would be a pleasure to become reacquainted with the old fellow who
spent cold nights in the kitchen, tending his creaking joints before the fire, replenishing his mind with reading. At the moment, Cicero was in the taproom across the way learning the news from Boston, where each of them had friends. At his return, Longfellow would hear whatever news he'd discovered, hidden in his favorite nook behind the great hearth.

For a while, at least, they would be glad to lose their visitors and return to an occasional game of chess or backgammon, and the revolving arguments manufactured on a regular basis to learn all sides of questions both considered worthy of study.

“Diana and Edmund will leave soon,” said Charlotte, thinking of the future as well.

“Yes—and be pleased to start over in their own humble establishment.”

“Are they above?”

“They went to the inn with Cicero. To be served, as you know, is, to Diana, one of the sweeter pleasures.”

“I've been left as well. Lem went out to see Mattie.”

“I predict you'll often lose his company as the weather improves. And then, one day…”

“Orpheus and I may easily enjoy ourselves, as long as we can walk, and visit someone who will throw us a bone from time to time.”

“Then we're all pleased by our prospects,” he said, smiling.

“And yet…”

“Qualms, Carlotta?”

“Richard, do you think Magdalene will go back to Boston with Moses Reed?”

“He told me he would discuss the question with her today; that is what I imagine they're doing upstairs. She
can hardly return to the island by herself. And since it will go, now, to the Knowles family, it might soon be sold. I wonder if they will auction or keep the furnishings?”

“She could live here with Jonah. Each of them will need someone. And as they both care for Ned…”

“You forget Catherine's death hasn't entirely been explained. He might not have her, if he suspects…”

“You and Reed did discuss the manner of Catherine's death?”

“And decided to say no more. We can't
prove
what she claimed was anything but a dying woman's imagination.”

“Magdalene will suffer greatly, when she's told her son has been forced to leave her.”

“She may also warm to Reed—even marry and bear him another son, I suppose.”

“Do you think so?” Charlotte doubted it. During the night of storm, soon after she'd found Moses Reed once more, Magdalene had said she would not see her lost love again. It was almost as if she could barely recall the man who'd stood before her, though for years she'd pined for him. But was that really true?

“Richard,” she said suddenly, “suppose Magdalene realized, long ago—”

Before she was able to voice her new thought, they heard a tapping at the window. A youthful face reflected their candlelight—they were doubly surprised to see that it belonged to Ned Bigelow.

Longfellow leaped to his feet and went out into the hall, then through the small dining room to a door leading to the piazza. He returned in a few moments with the young man they'd supposed was far away.

“I couldn't leave my grandfather alone, sir, after all,”

Ned began. “His illness, you see, has worsened, and he depends on me. I don't care what I have to pay for the shillings. I planned to find a ship at Providence, but once I got half way to Framingham, I decided I'd better turn around and come home. I'll stay—though Mr. Reed told me I shouldn't.”

“The shillings?” Longfellow asked, amazed. “What about the murder of Alex Godwin?”

“What about it?”

“But—do you now say?—”

“Wait,” said Charlotte.

“Yes, Carlotta?”

“I think we all may have overlooked something important. Do you remember, Richard, that Moses Reed told us he would fight for Ned in court?”

“He did say that, when he thought the boy was innocent.”

“But what changed his mind?”

“Well… Ned?”

“He said you'd confessed,” Charlotte told him gently.

“That's not true!” Ned exclaimed.

“Could he have feared his defense might have been insufficient to save the boy?” Longfellow asked his neighbor in bewilderment.

“I would imagine Moses Reed is a man who fears very little—even the anger of those he's wronged. And I begin to suspect he's a talented actor, now that I recall the scene. But Magdalene
knew.
Richard, why do you think Alex Godwin returned to Bracebridge last year?”

“To find employment.”

“Here, and not in Worcester, which is a far busier place? Catherine said Alex came to her with references. And yet, Hannah later told me Alex had been in some
sort of trouble, before he was
sent
away. If that is true, who might have helped him out of it?”

“For serious trouble, I presume he would have consulted a lawyer—”

“And who is the
one
man Catherine Knowles appears to have trusted?”

“You suspect Reed sent Godwin there a year ago? But why?”

“What if—oh, how could he? But what if Reed himself wrote Catherine's final will?”

“If that's so, how was it we found a copy on the island?”

“Alex might have taken it there… or couldn't Reed have brought it with him, when he came to Bracebridge? He might have ‘discovered’ it in Catherine's bedroom—”

“While I was out looking for something spectral in the blasted hall! That could be. But wait a moment, Carlotta—do you suppose Reed is a murderer, as well?”

She stared back at him, hardly able to believe it herself.

“If he did plan for Alex to inherit Catherine's estate,” Longfellow reasoned, “why would he then kill him,
before
she died?”

“A necessary change of plans?”

“Remember, too, that her fortune had been reduced to nearly nothing. And I saw the final will. Reed stood to gain control of no more than thirty pounds a year, for Magdalene—the rest, what little there was, will now go back to Philadelphia. Including, of course, the recent widow's portion.”

“But what if he saw this added inheritance not as a blessing, but a curse? Better to allow the Knowles family the return of that portion, if it would keep their eyes from
Reed's other business, which may not have been exactly honest.”

“Possibly…”

“He did tell us both earlier that Catherine's fortune was nearly gone. But do we know
where
it went? You saw the way she lived, apparently on next to nothing.”

“And if he'd invested wisely twenty years ago, he would have seen her wealth grow enough to easily ride out this latest depression,” Longfellow concluded.

“He told us Mrs. Knowles decided a year ago to give Magdalene's son his due—which might have encouraged Reed to make other arrangements. Would Ned, after all, have forgiven a father who had ignored him for years?”

“A father?” Ned whispered.

“He might have taken the hatchet from the bag at Ned's feet—” said Charlotte.

“—having no idea that it was Lem's, and not Ned's,” Longfellow finished.

“Reed did come over to talk to Grandfather,” the young man added. “Asking how he was, and then, when I would take him home.”

“When he might rid himself of Alex,” said Longfellow. “He could hardly have known Lem and Alex had argued earlier. It must have been an unpleasant surprise to see his plans go wrong.”

“It could have been worse,” said Charlotte, “to find Catherine Knowles dying in my kitchen, yet still able to speak—”

“That
was
somewhat disheartening,” said a cool voice from the doorway. Moses Reed leaned there as they'd seen him do before, a placid expression on his smooth face. Then he brought an arm from behind his back, and aimed a cocked pistol toward the group before him.

“The story you've spun together is rather remarkable— yet only a little less than the truth. My congratulations especially to you, Mrs. Willett, although I do dislike an inquisitive woman! But what you know will make little difference. I helped young Godwin out of an embarrassing situation in Worcester, as you have guessed. I arranged to have a charge of theft ignored, and promised him a small share of an inheritance for bringing me information. And you were correct about the widow's portion. I knew it was a race between Catherine and old Peter Knowles—to see who would die first. If only I had acted sooner! One day I learned she was to have the Knowles money, after all. No doubt they would have sent someone to help her invest it, hoping it would eventually return to them. And once they'd seen she'd lost her own fortune—”

“How did you manage that?” asked Longfellow.

“Do not interrupt sir, or I may find you in contempt! You will know it all soon, very soon. You see, Godwin guessed more than I'd told him, and he became greedy. When I met him on the evening that preceded your ice party, he also told me he planned to tell
you
about those damned shillings! What better reason for his murder, by one of many in Bracebridge? That evening, too, the little pig threatened
me
, demanding one half of Catherine's fortune—which is, in fact, intact. What could I do but stop him?”

“And Catherine?” Longfellow asked warily, watching the pistol. “Did you then see to her, too?”

“Having started, it only made sense to finish the matter. I rode up the next morning and paid a visit, using the tunnel Magdalene showed me years ago. You see, unlike yesterday, when Mrs. Willett had her mysterious accident, I was once quite careless about ‘covering my tracks.’ Never expecting close scrutiny of my affairs, I'd simply kept a list
of poor investments I might claim to have made; I was quite prepared to say they had drained away a little here, a little there. And while Catherine insisted on living like a hermit—Godwin assured me she very nearly covered her old bones in rags—I concocted invoices, as if she still enjoyed a life of splendor. Who, after all, would ever know? Eventually most of what I controlled for her did come to seem like mine. Considering the piddling amount I was paid to manage her estate, Catherine Knowles was a fool to imagine I'd
not
steal her blind. She may even have expected it—but she could never bear to come down from her eyrie to find out for sure. It seems she was satisfied with her immediate prey.”

“Why did you never go back for Magdalene?” asked Charlotte, curiosity overcoming her fear.

“Because ‘Mad Maud’ had spoiled everything for me. Once she was quite beautiful, and I was willing to marry her for any settlement John Fisher, or even Peter Knowles, would have given us. But just before Fisher died, she began to grow big with child. She said it was mine, but did I know for sure? Other men were there, after all, and she was hardly wise or careful. In the end, after her brat had ruined my plans I was packed off to Boston to earn my own living, which I pretended to be happy enough to do. And Catherine had a reason to keep the silly girl captive, as she'd been kept herself.”

“So you simply forgot her,” said Longfellow, his voice carrying his contempt.

“But here's the real surprise! Now, when the little fool could make amends—when the family in Philadelphia might finally reward me for taking care of her, so that
they
need not—now, she
refuses
to marry me! Let her rot, then. I have my fortune tucked away where none will find
it. All I need do is take the boy with me and pretend he has killed the two of you for revealing his crimes.”