A Wicked Way to Burn (12 page)

She walked to the road’s left edge, and looked off in a line with the scorched patch. The elevated grade sloped off a little more than two feet before it met the level of the surrounding field. For quite a distance, several kinds of wild grasses mingled with goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace, and an occasional clump of weaver’s weed. She leaned down to examine the nearest clump of barbed teasel heads on straight, prickly stalks, and gently pulled something away.

Several wool fibers remained between her fingers. They appeared to be bits of a coarse yarn, dyed a dull brown. Charlotte tucked the strands into a handkerchief, which she slid back into her pocket. Then, she
looked more closely at the immediate landscape and its inevitable roadside clutter.

She soon identified some cheap glazed crockery, perhaps from a traveler’s jug … a fragment of greasy newspaper long exposed to the sun, the wrapper of a sandwich, probably … a bit of discarded leather. But nothing more revealed itself in the vegetation.

She was about to stand, when a glimmer from something (a chip of quartz?) made her reach into the field grass, where her fingers recoiled from something sharp. She tried again. This time, to her satisfaction, Charlotte lifted up a piece of silver-backed mirror.

Unfortunately, further examination of her curious find was halted by a sound of warning that caused all three of the walkers to turn as a horse cantered up the road.

The approaching dark stallion, decided Richard Longfellow, was bred for racing. It occurred to his sister that the rider, too, was well-bred, although to what purpose would have been more difficult to say. The man appeared to be a few years younger than himself, Longfellow observed further, and under his tricornered hat he sported a finely made powdered wig, which set off his high complexion nicely, and made him look a very proper fool. Diana Longfellow thought the newcomer extremely well proportioned, particularly noticing a nicely formed thigh resting on an expensive leather saddle, and the masterful, gloved hand that guided the bit of his spirited mount.

To Charlotte Willett, the man before them appeared to be riding on a very high horse. She realized that this was a difficult position to maintain, especially should one have the misfortune to be galloping toward a fall. Or, she thought, observing him more closely … or, he might be a man of authority, who yet harbored a desire to dismount and walk among his fellows.

He was certainly dressed in style, in a deep blue coat with gold buttons, and silk smallclothes of canary yellow. His handsome black felt hat with a white plume completed the picture. As the rider reined in, the group on foot could see in his boots dark reflections of their own faces, while his horse pranced, snorting and foaming.

Longfellow—realizing what a dangerous thing it was to bring this nervous animal so close to the two women—stepped forward to protect them. The ladies, nevertheless, stood their ground.

The gentleman dismounted with surprising speed, to bow before the disapproval of at least two of the party below. He took the measure of the silent trio before speaking to Longfellow.

“From your interest in that mark on the road, I’d guess that this is the location of last night’s curious incident.”

His accent and manner confirmed that he was an Englishman, probably lately arrived in Boston. It also informed his audience that he came from the aristocratic world, especially noted, in the colonies, for its corruptions and prejudices. But there was also something more about him to hold one’s interest—something that hinted at intelligence, and a character accustomed to measuring its surroundings.

“It is the place where
something
happened,” Longfellow agreed. “I suppose you’ve come to gawk?”

“To gawk—and to find out what’s become of Duncan Middleton. My name,” he finally decided to tell them, “is Montagu. Captain Montagu. The Crown has appointed me to assist those who keep order in this colony and judge its wrongdoers: namely, the Superior Court of Massachusetts. For that reason, I have come out to investigate, and to discover whether this” (here he gestured to the road) “was some kind of country farce,
meant to amuse your farmers … or whether it was something else.”

“We’re not particularly fond of tomfoolery in the country,” said Longfellow slowly, eyeing the other’s feather, “especially when there’s work to be done.”

“You believe, then, that this was no more than a harmless annoyance?”

“That’s not exactly what I said.”

“What if some say it was murder?” the captain asked boldly.

“I, for one, say nothing of the sort. If you’ve come to investigate, Captain, then by all means, investigate—if you can find someone who has the time to stop and talk. As I say, most of us are quite busy at the moment.”

The anger in Montagu’s eyes warned Longfellow that here was a man who was not only proud, but perhaps even dangerous.

“As I can see,” the captain replied with a grand sneer that made Longfellow grind his teeth. “However,” Montagu went on, “I have spoken to Governor Bernard, and have his instructions. You and your countrymen are required …
requested …
to be of assistance, if indeed you can be of any help at all. Perhaps, as you say, that’s beyond you. Still, someone here must know
something
, if only a very little.”

Diana laughed at this, and favored Montagu with a look of her own, which she was glad to see had some effect.

“I presume,” said Longfellow, “that you’ll be leaving us shortly?”

Montagu shook his head with a twist of a smile.

“In that case, I imagine you’ll be staying at the inn.”

“I have arranged for accommodations there.”

“Then I suppose our further meeting is inevitable. I’m Richard Longfellow, one of the local selectmen. My house is across from what you’ll undoubtedly call your
‘headquarters.’ Captain Montagu, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Willett—and my sister, Diana, on a brief visit from Boston.”

“Captain Edmund Montagu, at your service, ladies.”

Longfellow grimaced at what he considered archaic and overlong formalities, as more bows were exchanged. His sister, on the other hand, used the chance to expose herself to better advantage, while she plied her lashes.

To Charlotte, who alone had no particular ax to sharpen, it seemed that something interesting and unusual had occurred, beyond all of the verbal fencing she had just witnessed. Somehow, the attention of the government in Boston had been directed toward tiny Bracebridge. And although it was no great distance away, she had found that the people of that city were generally uninterested in the concerns of outlying places. So why should Montagu be here?

Middleton, of course, had come from Boston, and was a wealthy man. But why should the Crown send out one of its own to question them, and so soon? This captain had even mentioned murder—with no body to indicate foul play.

Montagu’s eyes had now come to rest on Charlotte Willett.

“I’ve been to see Middleton’s room at the inn, and I’ve looked through his possessions there. I can tell you that these do, in fact, belong to the man. Also, the report of the clothes he wore here tallies with what his housekeeper saw when he left, two days ago. But none of this leads me to where he is now.”

“Two
days ago?” Charlotte asked with some surprise.

“He left his home on Monday morning.”

This, Charlotte considered—and then she wondered how much Montagu had learned from Jonathan, and if her own interest in Middleton’s valise had figured in their conversation. Looking into his composed face,
Charlotte knew only that she would never be sure what Captain Montagu knew.

“Curious, isn’t it?” Montagu continued. “Oh, by the way, his horse is also the genuine article—the one that’s housed in Pratt’s stables. I’ve seen it before, as well.”

“I, myself, have seen Duncan Middleton before,” said Diana, “and cannot explain why anyone would particularly care if he arrived late for dinner, or disappeared entirely. I can only imagine that you have some special reason for your interest. Something rather devious, I suspect. Am I right, Captain?”

“I have my reasons,” he admitted. “But, unfortunately, they are reasons I am not at liberty to share.”

“Not even in confidence?”

“Not even with you, my dear.”

Diana’s unclouded gaze turned stormy in an instant at this familiarity, coming from a man she had obviously failed to captivate. At the same time, Charlotte felt her natural sympathy for Captain Montagu growing.

“I fear the sun is beginning to tire me,” Diana declared, “and I’ve developed a most
obnoxious
headache.”

She turned to link Charlotte’s arm in her own, and marched her friend away.

Longfellow watched Montagu remount his dark horse. He stood defiantly, his hands behind his back, while the nervous animal and rider turned in circles, prancing first clockwise, and then the other way around.

“After I’ve spoken to this fellow Pennywort,” Montagu called down, “and the others who saw Middleton last evening, I would like to have your opinion. So, may I invite you and your party to supper?”

“I’m afraid we’ve been well filled for today.”

“Then dinner, tomorrow.”

Something in Montagu’s tone made Longfellow agree, although he did it with a sigh.

“All right, then, tomorrow. I rarely refuse an invitation
to dine at the expense of the Superior Court of Massachusetts. I accept for the three of us—provided, of course, that Mrs. Willett doesn’t object. As to my sister, no one ever knows what will capture and hold her interest next; but I believe she, too, will come.”

“Tomorrow then,” said Montagu, touching his hat. The horse tried to wheel once more, but its rider turned it furiously, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks until it leapt away through spurts of flying dust.

“WELL, ‘MY DEAR,’”
Richard teased his sister when he finally caught up with the two ladies, “what do you think of our fine friend from Boston, and beyond?”

“I wish he were tied down to a plank in his chemise, and then I would have some amusement with that silly feather of his.”

Longfellow’s shock wasn’t entirely pretended. After some thought, he relayed Montagu’s invitation to Charlotte, who accepted with pleasure. Eventually, so did Diana.

“I presume Montagu won’t get much help from anyone else, if he treats others in the style he’s just displayed,” Longfellow added, to be soothing. Diana appeared to relent slightly.

“At least it
was
a sort of style. And he appears to have enough wit to be amusing. Maybe we’ll be able to play fox and hounds with him. What do you think, Charlotte? Will Captain Edmund Montagu be good sport for us?”

“What I’m wondering,” replied Mrs. Willett, who had watched Montagu clatter over the bridge and past the village green, “is whether any fox could run far and fast enough to escape, with a man like that on its trail”

R
ICHARD AND DIANA
Longfellow spent Wednesday evening at home with Cicero, where they supped on broth and bread. The young woman offered a further torrent of Boston observations, which the two men followed with keen, if irreverent, interest.

Much later, Longfellow retired alone to his kitchen, from which came curious noises and a variety of unique odors, until well into the night.

Across Longfellow’s flower garden and up the hill, past Mrs. Willett’s beds of herbs, Charlotte and Lem shared a simple meal of corn cooked into a hasty pudding, thinned with cream, and sweetened with syrup, full of apples and walnuts. When they had finished, the boy took a book from a collection that shared a shelf with some crockery, and lay down with Orpheus to read beside the fire.

Charlotte sat at a small table by the north windows,
prepared to use what light remained to answer letters from her relatives in Philadelphia. But while trying to put recent events into words, her thoughts raced faster than her pen. Finally, she put down her quill to light a candle, and let her mind play as it would.

In all probability, the whole thing
had
only been a kind of farce—or a sleight of hand intended to inspire awe and fear, to hide some unknown purpose. She was nearly sure of it. Maybe it was the old man’s own business, as long as no law was broken. But a nagging sense of injury made her reconsider. Should Duncan Middleton be allowed to come into Bracebridge and arouse suspicion and anger … and possibly even create blame for a crime that had never really occurred? And what kind of man was he, to expose others to danger, for his own ends?