A Wicked Way to Burn (27 page)

IN THE SMALL
parlor attached to his bedroom at the Bracebridge Inn, Edmund Montagu sat and stared at a length of steaming wool. He had spread the scarlet cloak over the back of a tall chair, where it continued to
drip in front of the fire. Other clothes had been found tied up in the cape, along with a large stone. These were stretched over a nearby table. They, too, matched what had reportedly been worn by Duncan Middleton on the day the merchant disappeared. But why were they here?

Montagu had already looked each article over carefully. The only thing of interest seemed to be that it had all been hidden in the same pond where they’d found the body of Peter Lynch a few hours before. The searchers had hoped to find the missing ax, and find it they did on a later pass with their hooked poles, although the weapon’s recovery had been unable to excite the waiting crowd as highly as the first unexpected find. To them, the bundle of clothing was certain proof that someone had wanted to hide what was left of Middleton.

Montagu was still convinced that the merchant was alive. But he couldn’t help wondering why the man hadn’t simply taken his cloak away … or at least the smallclothes that had been pitched into the water. Perhaps the cloak was too bulky, too conspicuous to risk leaving with. But all the rest? Montagu smiled to think of the old rascal itching now in some farmer’s Sabbath attire.

At any rate, he hoped there would be no more nonsense from the villagers about a mysterious fire lit by witches. He pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together briskly. His work here was nearly over. But there was something else he needed to reconsider. Someone had very likely helped Middleton in his “disappearance” and his flight. Time had pointed a finger at Peter Lynch, whose mill stood conveniently near the scene of the merchant’s fiery show. If the odd pair
had
met before, was Lynch also the agent who was planning to take the tainted rum off Middleton’s hands? If so, it was no surprise that Lynch had a gold coin to spare, to give proof to his tale about the Frenchman. Middleton
could have arranged for the miller to supply him with a horse and a place to wait until he might leave Bracebridge unnoticed. But now, Peter Lynch was dead.
Why?

Had Middleton come back later, surprised the miller, and killed him to protect the fiction of his demise? Unlikely, if Lynch was part of his future plans. And it wouldn’t have been an easy job for an old man. The captain thought again of the
scenario
Charlotte Willett had followed, when she described Middleton jumping down to hide under his cloak at the side of the road. It had sounded plausible at the time; but now, he wondered.

Another thing—if Middleton had murdered the miller, it meant the merchant had hidden somewhere in the vicinity for at least forty-eight hours. Why had he waited? And where? Someone would certainly have noticed the old devil skulking around, white and crabbed. Who in Bracebridge would not see him and tell others, when everyone was aware of what they thought was the man’s spectacular demise? No, Montagu still believed Middleton was long gone, and that there must be a better answer to the question of who had killed Peter Lynch.

The Frenchman, of course, was the most likely candidate. Gabriel Fortier had a very good reason to want the miller dead, and soon. He had youth and agility, even if he wasn’t especially large. And further, if Lynch had encountered him in the dark, and Gabriel Fortier already had the hatchet in his hand, surprise or even a quick woodsman’s toss could explain how he had avoided the miller’s steely arms. Montagu happened to know from experience that a man carrying a candle at night made a superb target. And afterward? For Gabriel to have carried the miller outside by himself was just possible. Montagu also knew, from witnessing events of the battlefield, that a fatal head wound might take minutes or even hours to kill. Often, the most ghastly wounds did
not to stop a man from speaking, or babbling at least; an injured man might even get up and run a while before he collapsed and died. The brain was still a mystery to medical men, however much they peered and prodded when they got the chance.

So—the wounded miller could have stumbled out of his mill, dislodged and thrown away the ax in his death throes, fallen, and landed in the water. Or, the hatchet might have been thrown far into the pond by the Frenchman, who would undoubtedly have been following to see a proper end to his work. If things had gone as he had just imagined, thought Montagu, one thing was clear. It would be difficult for Gabriel Fortier to claim self-defense if ever he came to trial.

At any rate, the sodden cape hung before him; it would be something to show to Longfellow and his lovely sister. A fascinating creature, but on the whole, he wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t be happier spending a quiet evening with Charlotte Willett. There was a woman who came from a different mold. And she was fair in more than the usual ways. Her conclusions concerning the disappearance of old Middleton had been brilliantly simple, and quite possibly correct—although her theory now seemed to him a little skewed. Maybe Mrs. Willett hadn’t been
entirely
right, after all. Still, she had certainly led the pack at the start.

It would be interesting to hear her views on the murder of the miller, as well as thoughts she might have on Mary and the Frenchman, and on Fortier’s current whereabouts. He even longed to know what she thought about the trials of Pratt the landlord, and the devious wife with her simian lover. One thing was certain. These people he’d met here were hardly the Puritans he had imagined still populated Massachusetts. This place was a good deal like England, after all!

Almost as an afterthought, he added the death of
the boy to this bubbling stew. What had Dr. Warren concluded about young Dudley? Montagu would know before long. But very soon, he would have to let someone else take over the problem of finding Fortier, and bringing the boy’s killer, whoever he was, to justice. His own problem was still to discover the whereabouts of Duncan Middleton. And it was barely possible, he had to admit, that the old man himself was in no way connected to these two deaths at all.

Still, coincidence could be pushed only so far. And yet—

Was it also possible that something else was going on here, something he hadn’t even begun to understand? Reaching for his glass of wine, Edmund Montagu lifted both feet onto the low table in front of him, settled into his cushioned chair, and stared intently into the dancing fire.

A
FTER DINNER, WHILE
logs crackled in the grate over a bed of squeaking, popping coal, Charlotte offered coffee to Longfellow and Dr. Warren.

Before returning for their promised fare, the doctor had agreed to stay the night in one of Longfellow’s extra bedrooms. Now, in no hurry to go, both men took their ease, while outside the window a drier, colder snow fell gently, drifting over garden, lawn, and fields.

It was a shame Diana had chosen to stay at her brother’s with Cicero, thought Charlotte, but she had found it necessary—she said—to wash and curl her hair. Possibly, she waited for a visit from a certain captain. And probably, she realized that death must be dinner’s main subject—as it had been.

Warren had repeated for his hostess his reasons for believing that Sam Dudley’s death had not been accidental. For her part, Charlotte took the story of the
Dutch gold one step further; she told them how, according to the boy’s young sister, a piece of gold had been given to Sam. And she explained her notion that the coin had been taken away after his death by whoever killed him. She also offered her earlier thoughts on Peter Lynch’s connection to both Middleton and the boy. The next problem was to come up with a way to explain the miller’s murder. They had each stopped talking, and spent several moments in thought.

“The miller,” Warren began again, “from what I’ve heard, probably knew several men who might have wished him dead.”

“An accurate epitaph,” Longfellow interjected with a bleak smile, “if not a very happy one.”

“So there probably weren’t many he would have welcomed,” Warren continued, “on hearing someone in his mill after his usual hour for closing. And untrusting, he would seem to have been a very hard man to undo. An interesting paradox.”

“Lynch had at least a few friends, for all his lack of charm. Jack Pennywort, for instance, listened to his boasts and stories, and Wise, the tavern keeper, fed him on a fairly regular basis. There might have been one or two more.”

“But not this Frenchman of yours. Surely, though, he couldn’t have approached Lynch, at least in a threatening manner, unless it was from behind—which is not the way he was killed. Upon reflection, I don’t really believe the ax was thrown after all. I’ve been thinking, and I believe that if it had been, the gash would have been deeper. I have seen what that kind of an edge can do, when you fellows practice on trees. Yet you tell me that Fortier isn’t large. One very big individual, or two smaller—it comes to that again. Now, if one of a
pair
had provided a distraction, then the other might have come
up close behind. At the last moment, Lynch might have turned, and—”

Warren brought the side of a surprisingly delicate hand up like an ax against his forehead. Longfellow’s lips twisted, while he looked to their hostess, hoping to see her shudder. He only saw that Charlotte seemed far away. Following her eyes, he, too, watched the snow fall into the shivering maples beyond the curtains.

“Or it might still be one person,” she murmured, “if the helper happened to be some kind of unseen agent.”

“Agent?” asked Warren alertly.

“If you mean whiskey,” ventured Longfellow, “don’t forget that Lynch was a man who could hold his liquor. He’d had a good deal of practice.”

“What if he’d been lulled half asleep,” Charlotte said, still apparently trying the idea on herself, “befuddled, or even frightened by something else he didn’t know was affecting him? What if he’d been given some sort of concoction—a medicine, or even a poison? I know several things to quiet an illness that are easy enough to come by; so do most women who nurse their families. If I wanted to attack the miller myself, I’d first try to make him as helpless as possible.”

“A good idea,” Longfellow responded uneasily. He was alarmed by the avenue of thought this opened up to him, but the doctor seemed encouraged.

“Would you, Dr. Warren,” Charlotte asked hesitantly, “think to look for signs of anything of the kind, while you were examining a corpse?”

“With an obvious injury to blame, no. I probably wouldn’t.”

“I remember that the miller had a slight rash.”

“Yes—a recent brush with nettles, I’d thought. But you’re right! Such a rash could have been caused by a reaction to some kind of plant, or even a poison. Unfortunately, my knowledge of botany isn’t great,” he added.

“I can help you there,” Longfellow threw in. “Lynch might have been affected by a great many things. I know of several plants that plague our farms by causing harm to animals … although I’ve not seen detailed descriptions of how they affect man. At any rate, there’s Jamestownweed, for one—what Linnaeus calls
Datura stramonium.
Bad for sheep and cattle, though it’s sometimes smoked to relieve constriction of the chest. Then there are the banes. The Mediterranean henbane has unfortunately been introduced, and now grows wild here, dropping seeds that sometimes kill chickens; hence, the name.” He paused, and Charlotte took a breath to speak.

“But—”

“Wolfbane, or monkshood—aconite,” he continued, “is particularly deadly, though it’s sometimes used in small amounts as a sedative. Its blue flower is attractive, so it is frequently found in pleasure gardens. There’s also the wild arum, or wakerobin; cowbane, or water hemlock, very deadly; garden foxglove—to name but a few.”

“I’m aware of problems with yew,” Warren added thoughtfully. “Especially when its red berries interest our children.”

“In short, we have a plethora of plants that might be used to sicken or kill a man, woman or child, growing right outside our doors.”