A Wicked Way to Burn (29 page)

CHARLOTTE’S FRONT DOOR
had barely been opened to the cold when Diana Longfellow mysteriously appeared, nearly hidden under a forest cape whose shoulders were dusted with snow.

“I’ve come to keep you company, Mrs. Willett. I’m afraid there’s very little hope of society at the house where I’m staying. But I see that you have some of your own! Good evening, Dr. Warren,” she finished with a brisk curtsy, after moving inside so that the door could be shut again.

A few moments more and the men were off, leaving only their regrets behind. For consolation, the ladies sat to drink a pot of tea by the replenished fire.

“Now there’s a curious man. Still, he’s not unattractive, and he’s unattached.” Diana gave her neighbor a meaningful glance. “By the way, did you see what I did with the small bottle of perfume I showed you at the inn yesterday afternoon?” she queried, slipping off a pair of her brother’s jockey boots that had previously hidden under her skirts.

“The dragon bottle? No, I don’t think so.”

“How maddening! It’s irreplaceable,” Diana said with a sigh, settling herself into a chair in her stockinged feet, “and I hadn’t even grown tired of it yet. Oh, well—perhaps it will turn up somewhere. I’m forever misplacing things, especially when I come here. At home I have much more to lose, but Patty always keeps an eye out. I’ve just come from the inn, where I had my own small dinner party with Captain Montagu, who still thinks he’s the most exciting man in town—which, unfortunately, he is. I wonder, though, how other women deal with his smugness. Deep inside, you know, I’m convinced he’s a passionate man. That doesn’t surprise you? You know how I love to find what’s underneath others’ pretenses, when there’s anything worth finding. In his case,” she
added, poising a fingernail delicately in the air and dimpling at the thought, “I think there is. If I can get under his skin just a little further …”

Charlotte had seen Diana’s pursuits before, and didn’t doubt that it would be an interesting time for both parties, whenever Miss Longfellow and Montagu might meet again.

“You’d better watch your step,” she warned her coquettish friend. “The captain seems to be a clever man who usually gets what he wants. And I’m not sure he would approve of some of your friends.”

“Well, neither do I, when it comes to that. Especially the ones who
will
dwell on business and politics. Hurrah for Captain Montagu, if he can keep them quiet on those subjects when he’s around! Incidentally,” Diana continued in a different tone, “you might like to know they’ve found the red cloak and other things in the millpond. Oh, and I should tell you before I go on—Mary stopped me as I was leaving, and asked me to thank you for all you’ve done. Now—have I told you about the patterns from Paris that Lucy Devens brought back last month? She swears it’s the new fashion to dress like a shepherdess and picnic in the woods! Can you imagine?”

As dusk turned to dark, the ladies talked of many things, each cleverly managing to keep the other (or so she thought) from worry.

EDMUND MONTAGU REACHED
out and accepted Dr. Warren’s report from Longfellow’s hand. Before examining it in front of the fire, he provided his guests with claret.

While he read, the others examined the cloak and smallclothes, which still hung from the furniture.

“This has more to do with your problems than mine,” said the captain when he had finished, handing the paper back. He recrossed his silk-clad legs and
cleared his throat before continuing. “I had planned to help with your investigations only as far as they advanced mine. Now, I find I have to leave them to you. Only a moment ago, I received word from friends in Boston who tell me that a body, naked and as yet officially unclaimed, was washed up along the coast near Providence. On Tuesday.”

“Duncan Middleton,” Longfellow returned quickly.

“A guess, of course.”

“Hardly that. A scientific deduction, based on fact.”

“How?” asked Montagu. And how were they always a jump ahead of where he imagined them to be? He watched Longfellow set the tips of his fingers together carefully, and draw them apart again.

“Actually, I had it from Mrs. Willett. The man she saw here, she now tells me, was an impostor. As to the how, she notices little things. And little things with her often lead to larger ones. For instance, there was the time when one of her hens disappeared, and she eventually discovered—but I digress, Captain, when you have more serious things to consider. I take it you still plan to return to Boston, in order to watch what happens to Middleton’s estate?”

“Indeed,” Montagu replied, further annoyed. He would have to guess about the hen, and would miss learning more about Mrs. Willett’s methods. Whatever they were, they succeeded. For an instant, he imagined he saw the shorebird of the same name. Rather unspectacular, until she decided to fly; then, the willet displayed an arresting wing pattern, white and black bands that could hardly fail to catch the eye and raise the spirit. Another instant decided him.

“But please,” he insisted, reaching for the decanter of claret. “Go on. I would like to hear Mrs. Willett’s reasoning.”

“It has to do with teeth,” Longfellow went on, as his
glass was refilled. He related all that Charlotte had concluded after dinner. At the end, Montagu had to admit that the affair was far from finished.

“Do you have,” he queried, “further plans of your own?”

“I had meant to ride to Worcester tomorrow, to see Mary Frye’s father. Now, that seems unnecessary, strictly speaking. But I believe I’ll still go and talk to him, and ask a few others if anyone has seen a man of means who might have arrived there on Wednesday, possibly carrying Dutch gold. I may have some luck. And I’ll inquire about the miller’s stay earlier in the week—if in fact Lynch went that way. He might have dropped hints about this imposter he was in league with.”

“You will save me the trouble. And I’m sure someone of your experiences can speak with a frontier person better than I. Send me word if you discover anything of interest.”

The three men rose, but Montagu had not quite finished.

“Please give Mrs. Willett my regards, and my regrets at not having more time to spend with her. You might also take my respects to your most unusual sister. I suppose our paths will cross again, in town. Dr. Warren, I look forward to seeing you as well.”

“The question is, will I be seeing you, Captain?” Warren asked knowingly.

Montagu nodded slightly, acknowledging the hit. “That’s a question I wouldn’t wager on, either way,” he finally smiled, putting down his glass and walking them to the door.

THE NIGHT HAD
begun to clear by the time Charlotte retired to her feather bed. She curled her toes around a squat stoppered jug full of kettle water, while she watched
the stars that crept westward behind racing clouds, winking like distant eyes. Drifting toward sleep, she began to imagine others in their beds throughout the village.

Diana, of course, would be in her scented boudoir, draped in satin, kept warm by who knew what secrets and desires. Always a late riser, she was probably still at a book, or writing in her diary.

Then there were those at the inn. Charlotte wished she had managed to speak with Edmund Montagu again—Diana had told her he planned to leave in the morning. Together, they might have discovered why certain things, like the coins, connected the three confirmed murders. (She had been only partly relieved to hear from Richard, when he returned for his sister, that the merchant’s body had, in fact, been found far away.) Willing herself to forget about serious matters, she pictured Captain Montagu readying himself for bed, his wig beside him on a chair looking like a small, sleeping dog; she smiled to think what he might look like without it.

Resting near Edmund Montagu would be Mary, and Jonathan, and Lydia. Where would Lydia be sleeping now, she wondered? In a room usually kept for guests? It would be a cruel wound to Lydia’s pride, though a source of amusement (and a warning) for most of the village. She wondered what Nathan would have to say on the subject in days to come.

Mr. Lee would probably be in an upstairs room at the Blue Boar, if he was in bed yet; more than likely, he was still in the noisy room downstairs. He would certainly be the victim of many jokes in poor taste. But he would probably be the receiver of more than one free pint as well. Would he be telling further stories for his supper? Surely, he would be urged by the rest of the men to “spill the beans.” She wondered if she might find a way to talk with him again, without setting tongues wagging. As a naturalist with a knowledge of plants, he might be able
to instruct her. Beyond that, Lee could have learned more from Lydia when they were, well, together … about what exactly Lydia had discussed with Middleton or, more accurately, with the imposter, on the day he disappeared.

As sleep began to overtake her, a darker image of Gabriel Fortier loomed in her thoughts. Somewhere out there, in the wind, she seemed to see—no, not Fortier, but a short, dark figure with its back to her, coming closer—a back bent over and unaccountably moving along like a crab, sideways, but growing larger, and larger, until it flapped its dripping red cape, and turned to show a face that had been eaten away—a sight which woke her abruptly, and left glistening sweat on her lips and forehead.

In a move as familiar as childhood, she patted the side of her blankets and whispered softly. Orpheus, thus invited, rose stiffly to his feet and climbed up beside his mistress, where he settled with a happy groan.

For a long time after, comforted by the soft breathing beside her, Charlotte continued to look up at the flickering stars.

Saturday

F
RIDAY’S SNOWFALL WAS
followed by a day of clear sun and brisk wind, with the sky a deep blue. As usual on Saturday, people hurried about, trying to complete the week’s chores before sundown when the Sabbath began. In homes along the road, birch brooms swept at the open doors, beans simmered in pots, and linen fluttered on lines and trees.

Two horses clopped and snorted through the early morning air, over a landscape covered with shining, melting snow. As they left Bracebridge behind, Warren amused Lem with stories of life in Boston, sensing unborn ambition in the boy. In fact, he might well benefit from encouragement, Warren thought, and become a force for change, or at least resistance to all that was threatening the future of Boston. Most people who were given purpose, the doctor believed, could do amazing things. He himself had left Harvard in ‘59 to enter not
only into medical studies, during his indenture to Dr. Lloyd, but into political life as well. A member of what was softly called the Long Room Club, he met others at unannounced meetings above the office of the printers Edes and Gill, who put out the
Boston Gazette.
Here, men worked to develop friendships, public spirit … and treason, according to some.

Warren believed young men should be helped to knowledge that might allow them to lead their countrymen, especially when they showed a talent for leading. He had recognized something he liked in Lem Wainwright on the previous afternoon. If someone—say, Longfellow—were to sponsor the boy at Harvard, anything might happen—as long as the lad held onto his native reserve and pride, and kept a natural suspicion of both the British and easy money.