A Wicked Way to Burn (35 page)

Soon, they were on the path to the house, with Orpheus leading the way.

“What on earth …!” Diana boggled, when the kitchen door opened and she saw the procession enter. In an instant, she had gone for a heavy quilt to wrap around her friend.

When everyone was settled, with a fresh pot of tea brewing and smells of a simple dinner rising from the table, the story was slowly pieced together.

“Then someone must have gone into your house,” Diana concluded when Charlotte had finished, “and left something in the tea while you were in your garden. It
was certainly a coward; who else would choose such a way to silence a woman?”

“Would you have preferred a duel?” her neighbor asked with a laugh that was still not quite her own.

“I would have preferred for you to stay indoors, as Richard suggested. Oh! I’m starting to sound like my brother. But never mind; it wouldn’t have helped much if you’d done that, anyway. The poisoner might simply have found a faster, surer way.” She hesitated, shocked by the picture this brought to her mind, before she continued. “I suppose it’s uncertain whether he wanted to actually kill you or not. But with you wandering outside, out of your senses, the cold certainly could have done the job. As it is, it’s a good thing I’m here to watch you. I doubt if you’ll be able to think clearly for quite some time.”

“Otherwise, she would have been wondering by now why you’re hiding a fugitive in your brother’s greenhouse,” Cicero said pointedly.

“Yes, I
was
going to ask you that, Diana. Especially since Richard said—”

“What he always says? Oh, well. He’s not here to think for us, so I suppose it’s up to me to say they
can’t
stay here now. Whoever was after you might have been watching all of us tonight, and seen all of
you
come inside. I suppose it was the impostor—the one Richard tells me everyone thought was Duncan Middleton?”

“He was not?” asked the Frenchman, unacquainted with the newest developments. Charlotte related the story of the old man’s teeth, or lack of them, and her own slight connection with the red-cloaked stranger—as well as the warning given to her by Dr. Warren.

“If he is still alive then, at least no one has reason to blame me for being a sorcerer,” Gabriel proclaimed with relief. But they soon realized that the news did little to change his position as someone who might well have
sought the death of Peter Lynch. To the village, at least, he was still outside the law. And it was likely that Mary’s part in helping him would soon be discovered.

“Go back to the inn,” he begged, his fingers gently touching Mary’s hair. “For now, there is no future with me. Soon, I can be far away, in a place where I will work for money. When I have earned enough, then I will send for you.”

“Unless …” Charlotte ventured, raising a hand to her aching head, and thinking as clearly, and as quickly, as she could.

“Unless I go with you now,” Mary finished, holding her own head proudly, staring in the face of trouble that was likely to come.

“… unless you stay until tomorrow, or the next day at the latest,” Charlotte suggested quietly. “I know it’s a risk, but when I can put two and two together again, and we have a few more facts, I think we will be able to clear Gabriel’s name for good. Although there’s a chance that would bring other dangers,” she finished, looking squarely at Mary, her blue eyes grave.

“I think,” Mary responded, bravely, “that I know one more place where no one will find you. And if the worst should happen, I swear by God that you won’t die alone!”

It was an extremely foolish oath, Charlotte knew immediately. Foolish, and deadly serious—and very likely to be carried out, if things should go against Gabriel Fortier.

Charlotte reached to stroke Orpheus’s silky fur, and thought for a moment about the selflessness of love. She knew it was something that might hold two people together even in the face of death—sometimes, even after death itself. Looking at the lovers before her, she hoped that the strength of their passion might not also prove to be their undoing.

Sunday

H
E DISCOVERETH DEEP
things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death,’” boomed the Reverend Christian Rowe, reading from the Book of Job, while his congregation fittingly huddled in the unheated meetinghouse. Some probably shivered, too, while taking the sobering words to heart.

Did it mean, wondered Charlotte Willett, that it was only the Lord’s business to make known these deep things—the depths of human iniquity and frailty? Or was it for man (or woman) to help matters along? Am I my brother’s keeper? If so, am I to be his executioner as well? She wished she knew.

Charlotte was herself a great deal fonder of earlier words in the same chapter, those exhorting man to listen to the beasts, and the fowls of the air, and to learn from the earth as well as the fishes of the sea. Certainly there was much to be learned by using one’s senses and
examining Nature, in the manner of Mr. Lee, among others. On the other hand, Reverend Rowe clearly relished the somber passages that came later; his eyes flashed with pleasure as he went on.

“‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not. And dost thou open thine eyes upon such an one, and bringest me into judgment with thee?’”

God, we’re told, Charlotte continued on her own, helps those who help themselves—and He requires that we help each other. But what she now considered telling meant something more than help for the living, or even a quiet rest for the dead. It might also bring dreadful harm. Was it her business to interfere, by pointing a finger? She was certain now that at least a single murderer was still in their midst. But just how did one decide what to reveal about one’s fellows, and what to leave to others, or to God?

Three men had died … although one of them had really been only a boy. Peter Lynch had been a menacing, grasping man; but the taking of his life, too, was surely of some importance, if even a sparrow counted. Every death had meaning; each meant loss. “‘And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls,’” she remembered Aaron saying. “‘It tolls for thee.’” Once more, Donne’s lines provoked many thoughts within her. But soon they whirled with all the rest of the morning’s words in a glittering mass inside Charlotte’s head, which still ached from the previous evening’s adventure.

And what about preserving one’s own life, if it were threatened? It was true she could have died in her garden—might well have died of the cold, at least, if it had not been for a combination of lucky circumstances, or perhaps divine help. That, too, was a thought. Before leaving home this morning, she had taken several cups
of strong coffee to fight off a fatigue that sleep hadn’t cured. Now, its effects caused her body to tremble. The rash had gone, but an irritating itch remained.

Still, she’d taken a little time this morning to study the books Lem had brought back for her from Boston. But on the face of it, she’d decided it might be impossible to prove anything, even if she
had
found a likely herb. After all, knowledge of what had been used still didn’t say who had left it, even though she felt she knew.

Looking for distraction, she studied Richard Longfellow and Diana in their front pew. It was a position her neighbor had paid well for, as was expected, although she knew he would have preferred a less conspicuous place.

At the same moment, Diana, too, was feeling constrained by her highly visible position, but at least she didn’t feel the cold, wrapped in a thick, fur-lined cloak, with her feet on a warmer full of coals. What a bore the preacher was, she thought, and had been for two hours and fifty minutes, according to a small gold watch she glanced at from time to time. She was used to sermons dealing with urban life, with politics and personalities chastised or supported from the pulpit. Sundays
could
be very exciting, especially if one knew the individuals referred to, and could turn to look at them. And sermons in Boston were generally shorter. She wondered if Edmund Montagu went to meeting today in the city, or if he had found some official excuse.

Once again, Diana reached into a large satchel that held several comforts, to get a scented handkerchief and perhaps a lemon drop. It was then she saw a gleam from within, indicating something which, on further fishing, turned out to be the lost enameled dragon vial with its delightful perfume. She had been wrong; she’d never lost it at all.

Only now, she remembered dropping the bottle into
a small pocket in the larger bag, for safekeeping. Well, that was fortunate. She would have to tell Charlotte not to keep looking for it, when the sermon ended. The thought of Mrs. Willett made Diana sigh again, as it recalled her mind to more serious matters.

Seated beside his sister, an attentive Richard Longfellow continued to frown at Christian Rowe, trying to decide if the minister’s hairline receded as quickly as his own. Longfellow had already gone over his conversation with Elias Frye several times in his head, until he had run out of new conclusions. It was now very likely that the miller had not been in Worcester when he said he was; wherever Lynch
had
been, it was also very likely that he’d been up to no good. It might have been Providence … but there was no proof. Still, he couldn’t have been the one to attempt to poison Charlotte. Tea from the same canister had been drunk since Lynch’s death with no ill effects, by both Charlotte and Hannah. And there had been no other guests in the Willett house since then. So, someone
must
have crept into Charlotte’s kitchen when no one else was there on Saturday afternoon, and left a nasty calling card. As a selectman, Longfellow felt especially unhappy about the way the thing had been carried out. Had it really come to this—had people to lock all of their doors when leaving now, if only for half an hour? It was undoubtedly a sign of the growing lawlessness of the times.

On Longfellow’s left, Cicero sat gazing at the preacher with what appeared to be admirable piety. But his thoughts, too, were wandering. It had been another interesting night, and a neat trick to get Gabriel and Mary out the back door, while Longfellow came in through the front. Later, he would enjoy hearing Diana’s explanation of the brief use she’d made of Longfellow’s glass house. Last night there had been enough to say about the attempt on their neighbor’s life. All three had
resolved to do everything they could to keep such a thing from happening again. They had also agreed that no one else should be told. It was enough that Charlotte had been singled out twice in one week—first, by Peter Lynch, then by the preacher, in front of his mob. Cicero knew it would do little good for even Longfellow to challenge a man like Reverend Rowe, if he should get it into his head to stir up more trouble. But, there were other ways to persuade the fellow, should the need arise.

“‘For thy mouth uttereth thine iniquity, and thou choosest the tongue of the crafty. Thine own mouth condemneth thee, and not I: yea, thine own lips testify against thee,’” intoned the reverend.