A Mischief in the Snow (9 page)

“A kind, yes.”

They moved on in silence. Despite a feeling of renewed companionship that she'd missed in recent weeks, Charlotte also felt something nearly its opposite— something unexplained, and distinctly chilly. Though she hardly supposed this to be Richard's fault, it stopped her from speaking further.

What, she wondered, could have begun to bother her now? Looking around, she saw the last of the revelers depart, while the men by the pool of light continued their work. One walked from the others, toward a copse of dark firs. She soon saw him return to the rest and resume his efforts. Orpheus was disturbed as well, his attention directed to the same trees, which grew blacker by the minute. Charlotte lowered her head and suggested he take a look. He whined, his eyes going from hers to the copse, and back again. Though he continued to watch intently, the old dog refused to leave her.

With the fading of the last light in the west, Diana reappeared. By the lantern's glow they saw that her features were quite different from what they'd been before.

“How magical it was!” she gasped. “And just as I remembered! Thank you, Richard,” she added breathlessly.

“You're quite welcome, Diana. Now, perhaps, you'll be pleased to try what Cicero has for us at home. Your lack of interest in his culinary efforts has caused him some concern lately.”

“Then I'll eat enough to bend my stays! How good it
is to be among friends. I almost feel as if everything will be all right…”

“Of course,” said her brother, kneeling to remove her skates.

Charlotte made no answer of her own. At that moment, for no apparent reason, she felt far from sure.

T
HE WINTER SKY
was still dark whe n Charlotte opened her eyes to a new morning. Refreshed, she looked forward to rising.

The first thing her nose told her, as she moved the linen sheet curled about her face, was that the air was less dry, and a little warmer. It also blew steadily, and had begun to whistle around a corner of the house as it made its way inland from the sea. Before long, it would bring snow. She was glad she'd moved to the middle bedroom, next to the kitchen's chimney. Richard had been right, she thought, when he'd predicted the weather would worsen.

She stretched out her feet, and smiled as they encountered a large ball. Orpheus had crept softly onto the sagging bed, burrowing under its covers like a sapper. Surrounded by feathers, he no doubt dreamed of chasing after ducks or geese, along the Musketaquid's noisy marshes. That might explain the frantic quivering of his paws.

The thought of the marshes reminded her of the ice pond, and the curious feeling she'd had the night before.

Today it was gone; she supposed it had been no more than fatigue from a long day. And the new suggestion of snow on the way gave her a pleasant sense of exhilaration.

After a warning word to Orpheus, she took a breath. She lunged from beneath the covers, and leaped to the chair to grab hold of her morning gown. When she'd slipped into its soft warmth, she sat on the side of the mattress and pulled on her slippers. By now, her companion had emerged to watch intently.

“Run!” she called a moment later, bolting for the door. There was a scrabble of claws behind her on the newly sanded pine floor. While she regretted its marring, she laughed as she led the way down the narrow, twisted stairs.

FROM THE NEARBY
dairy, Lem Wainwright watched the light increase while he went about the morning milking. At last he blew out the flame in his lantern, and lifted a final bucket from the straw. As the cows, hayed and watered, continued to chew, he carried the warm milk down several steps to the spring room. He would deal with it later. Now, he intended to make a quick trip back to the scene of yesterday's excitement.

After he'd walked the small herd across the yard to the barn, he went out into the wind once more. Pushed by the increasing gale, he made his way to the Boston-Worcester road, and then took the track that ended by the ice. This morning, it was deserted.

Minutes later, he looked carefully around the fire, no more than dead ashes and the ends of logs. Somewhere he'd left his canvas seed bag, and the woolen scarf Mrs. Willett had knitted for him. The bag also held the ice
hatchet he'd borrowed from the barn's supply of tools. Neither, of course, could be lost. Anyone finding them would know where they belonged—the scarf, since they'd all seen it around his neck, and the hatchet because it had “Howard” carved into its handle.

Several minutes later he was about to give up, having found nothing more than some paper and broken china, and one small mitten. Then he saw company, and help, approaching. Orpheus had been let out of the house to begin his own morning duties. He loped down the track, a single bark announcing his pleasure at finding a friend.

With the dog at his side, Lem re-walked the entire area of stamped snow. He investigated a few clumps of blueberries, thinking the wind might have taken the scarf, at least, on its own. Still, nothing useful came to light. They found only scraps of discarded food, another bright mitten (not a match), and a child's stocking.

Then Orpheus's head shot up, for the shifting wind had brought something new to his nostrils. With Lem following, he led the way to a spot behind a small copse of firs, where the snow had been altered in curious ways. Here and there, bright yellow seemed to have blossomed over the white. Other visitors had written bits of messages in the unblemished snow. And one large frozen puddle, Lem thought with a smile, had been made by the more community-minded. It might have been seen as an interesting study of dispositions, he supposed, if one cared to think about such things.

After adding his mark to the others, Orpheus was still not content. His ears pointed with new alertness. He began to whine softly. He moved to the edge of the copse, and uttered a low growl. In another moment he stepped hesitantly into the trees, and disappeared between their
singing limbs. A mournful howl then rose above the wind.

With misgiving, Lem strode to the trees and plunged inside. When his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he saw that someone lay sleeping—a young man stretched out on his chest, on top of a soft bed of needles. A second later he realized he'd been wrong. With a worse shock, he knew by the frost covering its exposed flesh that the body was no longer alive—and, that it was Alex Godwin. He touched a hand, and found it icy cold, hard as marble.

The poor fool must have returned after all, and gotten drunk by the end of the afternoon, Lem imagined with a shudder. Very drunk indeed to fall asleep here, and stay long enough to freeze! It was a terrible thing—and yet, perhaps, a fate that was not entirely unjust.

As this seemed a shameful conclusion, Lem began to look about for something to make him feel more charitable toward his former rival. There was his ridiculous hat, with its fringe of grouse feathers. Odd that it appeared to have been tossed down onto the back of his head, hardly as if he'd put it there himself. With the beginning of a new suspicion, Lem bent to move the hat, and then felt true horror at the sight of a dark hole in the soft base of Alex Godwin's skull. It looked to be deep. There was little blood about—so he'd died quickly, or perhaps somewhere else. But how? Lem soon found the answer. Beneath a fir branch lay an ice hatchet—one all too familiar.

He reached out, but drew back. He could see the damage hadn't been caused by the bite of the flat blade. But the back of the hatchet had a wicked point, now stained with something. Someone must have found it, and brought it here. Who? And why would anyone have wanted to use it for
this
?

Yet as he straightened, he had to ask himself if some in the village might not rejoice to have Godwin out of the way. And then it came to him where he'd left the canvas bag the day before. He'd set it down near the bonfire— not long before his fight with Alex, in front of several women! Mrs. Willett, as well as a couple of the old village hens, had heard them arguing. And Mattie! What would Mattie think when she heard of what had happened
now?

Feverishly, he began to ask himself if there could be a simple way out. What if Mattie never heard? Maybe none of them had to—at least not any time soon. After all, they might think Alex went off in one of his high and mighty moods, as he often did. He only boarded in the village—he might not even be missed, if someone went in quietly, one day soon, and took away his things. Only yesterday there had been plenty of open water in the pond. It probably hadn't frozen much. With the hatchet, he could open up a hole and slide the body in. It might not be found for months.

But it would be found eventually. And then, Richard Longfellow wouldn't be happy to learn what someone had done to his ice pond. Lem wondered, too, if he could keep such a thing hidden from Mrs. Willett. She already suspected there was something he wouldn't tell her. Keeping this, too, a secret would be next to impossible.

Orpheus began to whine again, then allowed himself to be led out through the branches, back into the streaming wind.

Lem knew he would have to go to them both, and explain what he could. Mr. Longfellow, as one of the village selectmen responsible for seeing to the peace, would have an idea of what to do next. With Mrs. Willett helping him, he might even discover who had done this thing— and why.

Hoping for the best, the young man began to jog back toward the track, glad he'd decided to do what was right. Still, he imagined that a small, nagging devil, as well as a large dog, kept him company.

“WHAT?” ASKED LONGFELLOW
, setting down a pen.
“What
did you say?”

“Dead, sir,” Lem repeated. Suddenly remembering his manners, he grabbed his cocked hat by one of its corners, and stuffed it under an arm.

“Alexander Godwin? And you say you found him
in my ice pond?”
A ghastly thought had become even worse.

“In some nearby fir trees, sir. You would have seen them when—well, it was where men went to piss yesterday.”

“Yes, a small stand, relatively young.”

“Littered with needles inside, so a darkly clad body didn't show through.”

“An interesting observation. Just how did he die, do you suppose?” The selectman leaned back, hoping for a flow of more useful information.

“His neck was punctured.”

“Punctured? Punctured
how?”

“In the back. It was done with—with an ice hatchet.”

“An ice hatchet! Whose?”

“Mine.”

Again, Longfellow waited.

“Or rather, Mrs. Willett's,” said Lem. He gave a sigh that ended in a moan.

“Does she know about this?”

“I didn't ask to borrow it, but I often use tools left in the barn by her father,” said Lem. “I'm sure she won't mind.”

“That part, no.”

“I didn't do it myself! Yesterday morning, I left the hatchet in the canvas bag we use for scattering seeds— along with my scarf—before I went off to skate with Mattie.”

“Where, exactly, did you last see this bag?”

“I set it down when I went to talk to Ned Bigelow, seeing he arrived just after I did. I knew the hatchet would be safe there from children since they wouldn't be allowed to play too near the large fire. Several men were already sitting around it.”

“Mr. Flint and Mr. Tinder I saw myself, only a little later.”

“And Jonah Bigelow between them?”

“John Dudley came over some time later…” Longfellow mused.

“The constable?” Lem hardly knew whether to feel better or worse. “Do you think he saw the hatchet?”

“I doubt he noticed much of anything.”

“But the others—someone must know what happened to the bag.”

“Now I think of it, I do remember the scarf, and seeing some sort of handle. Lem—how long do you think Alex Godwin has been dead?”

“All night, I'm sure. He's stiff with cold. Frozen, in fact.”

“You tried to move him?”

“No, sir. I thought… but I decided to leave him. All I moved was his hat.”

Longfellow sat up with new purpose. “Do you know of anyone who might have felt he had reason to do such a thing? Even someone who might have wished only to frighten him, but went too far?”

Lem considered carefully. “Many of us might have
wanted to do a little something to him, sir, from time to time.”

“I see. But could he have had any real enemies here?”

“He must have. He's dead, after all.” This nice bit of logic forced Longfellow to take another tack.

“I'll go and see for myself. No reason to call John Dudley just yet. He'll have a sore head this morning, I'm sure. Go across to the inn. Tell Tim to take his time, but to let the constable know he needs to pay a visit to Reverend Rowe in the next few hours. Then, I want you to tell Mrs. Willett about this. When you've done that, follow her back here. You've told no one else?”

“No, sir!” Lem assured him. At a further sign from Longfellow, he turned and hurried out.

“Young fools,” he heard from behind. Striding through the hall, he asked himself who, besides Alex, the selectman could have in mind.