Louisa and the Country Bachelor : A Louisa May Alcott Mystery (9781101547564) (30 page)

“Oh, my,” said Abba, turning white in the lamplight. “Does that mean Johnnie Dodge murdered his own son?”

“Dodge's son was stillborn, and Ida married again after Dodge went to jail,” I said. “Perhaps Dodge assumed Clarence was not his son. We may never know.”

“They did have quite different noses,” said Sylvia. “Wattles's—I mean, Dodge's—was quite flat, while Clarence's was long.”

“But what about poor Ernst Nooteboom?” Abba asked.

“Ernst Nooteboom would not sell his land to Mr. Tupper,” I said. “So Dodge, perhaps in a fit of spontaneous anger, perhaps with premeditation, pushed him over the cliff. Sheriff Bowman found Ernst's gold watch in Dodge's pocket.”

“Why did he affect that chair, Louy? It must have been irksome,” Fanny said.

“Because of his limp,” I said. “It was one of his identifying characteristics. He had been shot during a burglary. But he needed periodic release from that chair so that his legs did not completely atrophy. O'Rourke at the foundry said that a stranger had been seen occasionally walking in Walpole at odd hours. That was probably Dodge, going up and down the ravine path for exercise when he thought no one would see. After pushing Ernst, Dodge then tried to frighten the surviving sister into selling the land to Mr. Tupper Sr., by sending her menacing notes.”

“But how would that enrich Mr. Dodge?” asked Anna.

“Through his wife, Ida. Once Jonah and his father were dead, Ida would inherit everything.”

“Oh, heavens.” Uncle Benjamin sighed. “So old Mr. Tupper was to die as well?”

“I think eventually he would have,” I said. “I also think Ida had set her sights on her next husband.”

Uncle Benjamin grew pale. “You don't mean . . .”

Cousin Eliza choked on her sherry, and Anna had to reach over and pound her back.

“But why was Clarence murdered?” Abba asked.

“Because like poor Hamlet, he had a conscience,” I said. “I think on several occasions he wanted to tell me about the violent oddity of his household. He had discovered Jonah Tupper's grave, perhaps the very day I first saw him at his campsite, when he was drunk and raving. But he knew his own mother was involved, and how could one turn on one's mother like that? He went along with the pretense of the bell order to protect his mother.”

“Indeed,” said Fanny Kemble. “That is the tragedy of every Hamlet: how to accuse the king without also implicating the queen.”

“That was my worst mistake of the summer,” I said. “I saw Clarence's hatred, his violence and confusion. I did not see far enough to the reasons for his extreme disturbance of conscience.”

“But what about the death of Mr. Sykes, when witnesses said Clarence was swimming with him and his stepfather drowned?” Sylvia asked.

“It could easily have been Johnnie Dodge with him that day. From a distance, who could have identified one man over the other?” I looked down at my bruised, ink-stained hands. If I were to write “true” stories, and not just “blood and thunders,” not just tales for children, I would have to pay closer attention to those around me, to see the invisible as well as the visible. I would have to see into the depths of the human heart itself.

Sylvia read my thoughts. “You will, Louy,” she whispered.

“But you say he had a conscience. What is the basis for that judgment?” Llew asked. “I admit that being thought guilty of his death was unpleasant, but a part of me could not grieve for him. He was arrogant and unpleasant.”

“But he would not marry the girl he loved, Lilli Nooteboom. Not until he could hide her safely away from his family. He tried to protect Lilli,” I pointed out. “The conversation you overheard, Llew, the quarrel between the two men, was probably Clarence arguing with Dodge.”

Llew gave me another of those strange glances, and then looked away. I knew what was in his heart, and in mine as well. I took his hand and held it between my own.

“My friend,” I whispered.

“No more than that?”

“No more.”

Father cleared his throat loudly, and as we sat in contemplative silence, the sun finished setting on the long summer day, one of the last of summer. Abba moved quietly about the room, lighting lamps. We had more than one lamp that night, since it was a celebration and, we suspected but did not say, the beginning of a parting, for soon Abba's Golden Brood, all now gathered under this one roof, would separate. My purse had finally emptied and I had decided to return to Boston in the fall, to teach again, and sew, and write, and do what must be done to keep my family from financial danger and to keep creating my stories. I'd had enough of the quiet country life. Anna had accepted a job in Syracuse, at Dr. Wilbur's Idiot Asylum. “It will be calmer there, I suspect,” she had commented.

But that evening the lamps cast flickering shadows and the faded blue silk of the hand-me-down settees grew yet paler in the dimming light, as I looked from face to face of my beloved family and friends. What strange conversations that parlor had witnessed; what a strange cast of characters had tested the springs of those chairs and sofas!

“So once the itinerant court begins, I'm sure Johnnie Dodge will hang for murder,” Llew said. “Mrs. Dodge will spend some years inside the North State Prison for Women, for bigamy if not worse.”

“And now, supper,” said Abba. “There's a dish of new potatoes and a salad as well, all from your father's garden.”

“There's the real mystery,” said Sylvia. “How ever did you get your late-planted garden to produce so much, so quickly?” she asked Father as she took his arm and headed to the dining room.

“The beneficent creator provides,” Father said.

“Amen,” said Llew.

I took Abba's arm and we walked slowly behind the others. “Tell me the truth, now that no one can hear us,” I pleaded.

“Fish heads and tails,” she whispered. “Best fertilizer in the world. Only don't tell your father. Oh, if only they didn't stink so!”

Gentle Readers,

 

In December of 1855 I found myself in Boston temporarily separated from my beloved family in Walpole, New Hampshire, and facing a Christmas, that most wonderful of seasons, without the comfort of my loved ones.

But drudge a living I must, for I was not yet the rich and famous author I later became. My stories, when they sold, earned little, and so I had sought employment and received an offer from Reverend Ezra Gannett, who wished me to complete an order of a dozen winter shirts for him, all to be finely seamed, buttonholed, and finished with pleats and embroidery.

I was an unenthused seamstress at best, but his payment would allow me to purchase Christmas presents for my family, so I accepted his offer, and a second one besides, for a dozen summer shirts of lighter fabric to be completed by April. These matters are relevant to my story. Trust me.

My dear friend Sylvia Shattuck was also in residence in Boston, fortunately, for more than ever I counted on her steadfast and amusing companionship. Sylvia, however, was in a strange frame of mind, one that set into motion a course of events that would involve us in murder, faithless lovers, and sad deeds of a dark past. Beware of boredom, gentle reader. It can lead one down dangerous paths.

“I miss Father,” she sighed one morning as we took our walk along the harbor. It was a misty, cold day, and the harbor waves were tipped with frosty white.

“Unfortunately, your father passed away when you were a child,” I answered gently. “You barely knew that long-enduring man, so how do you now claim to miss him?”

It was unlike Sylvia to yearn for any family member, dead or alive, and I had a vague presentiment that she was to introduce yet another faddish custom into my life. Sylvia lived in vogues, and had just relinquished Confucianism, which had not brought the enlightenment she sought. No use to explain to her that philosophers spent years at that task; Sylvia tended to give three months and then move on.

“My point exactly,” my companion responded, turning upon me bright eyes filled with a passionate melancholy. “I feel the need for a masculine presence in my life, and would like to converse with my father. I will, with the assistance of Mrs. Agatha Percy. Please come with me to one of her sittings!”

I groaned and jammed my hands deeper into my pockets, despite the stares of several passersby; a lady did not put her hands in her pockets. She did if they were cold, I thought. Ship rigging creaked in the wind and bells chimed the start of a new watch, and I pondered Sylvia's statement.

Mrs. Agatha D. Percy was the newest fad in Boston, one of the recently risen members of that questionable group of individuals known as “spiritists,” or mediums. One must feel a very heavy burden of ennui to wish to spend time at that dubious amusement, I thought.

“Oh, it will be such fun, Louisa. All of Boston goes!” Sylvia persisted.

“Then it must be quite crowded,” I rejoined, walking at a faster pace to try to dissuade Sylvia from this topic.

But she turned pink with enthusiasm and fairly raced about me in circles, imploring that I join her in this new activity. “Please come with me, Louy; say you will! I have an invitation for you from Mrs. Percy.” Sailors in their blue overcoats turned in our direction and grinned.

“I can think of better ways to spend time and money than sitting in the dark and watching parlor tricks. I would much rather, for instance, attend one of Signor Massimo's musical evenings.” The signor, a famous pianist, was touring the United States from his home in Rome and had decided to winter in Boston. He was giving a series of performances—performances I could not afford, since the tickets were as much as three dollars apiece, even when they were available, which wasn't often, as he preferred private homes and small salons.

“Mother tried to get tickets and could not. She was furious,” Sylvia said. I could understand; women with Mrs. Shattuck's family name and wealth were not accustomed to hearing no.

“Look, there is ice in the harbor,” I said, putting my hand over my eyes to shield them from the glare.

“I will have your answer,” Sylvia persisted.

I introduced several new topics of conversation, hoping to distract Sylvia from her mission—Jenny Lind, the Wild West, a newly published travel book about France that was flying off the shelves—but each topic she cleverly rejoined and detoured back to Mrs. Percy. Jenny Lind, accompanied by her American manager, P. T. Barnum, had visited Mrs. Percy. Mrs. Percy had published a “memoir” from a spirit who had visited her from Oklahoma. Mrs. Percy had toured France the year before and had been received by their umbrella-carrying Citizen King.

“Don't you see?” Sylvia sighed in exasperation, pulling at my hand to prevent me from taking another step. “The spirits themselves wish you to visit her. They put those very suggestions in your mind!”

“Then they should put a plot or two in my mind,” I said, remembering the still-blank sheet of paper before which I had sat that morning at my desk. Being between stories was an unpleasant state for me, when no plot or story threaded the random thoughts of everyday imagination, no characters spoke to me in my head as I swept the parlor or stitched linens.

“They will,” Sylvia said complacently. “I hear they become quite chatty and friendly in Mrs. Percy's parlor. You might use the scene in one of your ‘blood and thunder' stories. Think what fun it would be to write about Mrs. Percy!”

“I am unconvinced that ‘fun' is the correct word to describe an hour of sitting in the dark, pretending to speak with the dead,” I said.

“Spirits,” corrected Sylvia. “The dead don't like to be called dead. Such a harsh word.”

Neither of us was yet aware of exactly how harsh that séance would become.

“I will think about it,” I promised. “But now come with me to Tremont Street, and let us look in the windows and begin to think of Christmas presents, and what we will give our families.”

“I know what Mother wishes,” said Sylvia. “A son-in-law.”

“I have an easier shopping list,” I laughed. “A ream of writing paper for Father, new Berlin wools for Auntie Bond, something frivolous for Marmee since everyone else is certain to give her sturdy handkerchiefs.” Marmee, my beloved mother, was also known as Abba, but more and more in my imagination she was Marmee, and she was already the center of a story I had yet to write but often thought about, a story about four daughters, one named Jo, and their wise, generous mother. “A pair of gloves for Anna in Syracuse, and Faber pencils for Abby.” Abby, the youngest Alcott girl, was the artist of the family.

“You've forgotten Lizzie,” said Sylvia.

“No, I haven't.” Lizzie was a musician, a quiet, shy girl who asked for little and was content with all she had, which was little enough. “But what can I give a sister who deserves a grand piano, a gift out of the question? I am at a loss.”

“You'll think of something. Louy. You always do,” Sylvia assured me.