A Wicked Way to Burn (37 page)

“Then it wasn’t Mary—” Charlotte began. Immediately, she thought better of denying what she’d been
forced to suspect earlier … that the young woman might be a thief, and worse. It
had
seemed odd that Mary would be interested in taking such a thing, while her lover’s life was at stake. Diana’s news, then, meant that there must be
two
identical bottles in Bracebridge. But why had Mary been so quick to hide one of them the night before?

“Didn’t you tell me that bottle was one of only half a dozen just arrived?” she asked Diana instead.

“Yes, brought in by Will Harper. If I’d been in Providence to ask him directly, I’m certain I could have gotten it at a much better price. For a song, really,” Diana concluded, her eyes taking on a dreamy expression. “Did I tell you that I met the captain once before, while I was in London?”

“But then, Mary’s bottle must have been brought from Providence, as well,” Charlotte labored to explain. “So that means Peter Lynch was in
Providence
, not Worcester, on Monday … and that’s where he intercepted Duncan Middleton! As he may have been
told
to do—by someone far smaller, who would be able to impersonate the merchant here. Then, both came back to Bracebridge on Tuesday, with the clothes, the horse, and the money. The impostor took the money, put on the clothes, and rode the horse to the inn. I saw him; so did Jonathan, and Lydia … although she tried to hide the fact—unsuccessfully, for the two of them were overheard by Mr. Lee. And then later at the Blue Boar, Gabriel went out first, and Jack followed them both onto the road, just as they knew he would—”

And at that instant the end of the story came to her, along with the knowledge of where her reasoning had gone wrong before. Stunned by her conclusion, she barely heard the faint clatter of horses’ hooves outside. Then, realizing that delay might be dangerous, Charlotte turned and started to explain to Diana exactly who it was they should be extremely careful to avoid, and
why. She had time to utter a name which put a look of astonishment on Diana’s features. But before Mrs. Willett could go further, a commotion rose above the room’s babble. One by one, heads turned to see five horsemen dismounting under the bare trees in front of the tavern.

Those outside quickly gathered around the newcomers, obscuring the view through the windows. But Charlotte and Diana had seen the vivid finery of Edmund Montagu, surrounded by the lesser uniforms of four others. Two, in loose blue and white, were sailors, while two more in scarlet coats and white breeches were clearly members of the king’s regiments. It was an unusual spectacle this far inland, in time of peace, and more than a little grumbling punctuated the immediate excitement of the men outside.

Curiously, the sailors followed Montagu into the tavern while the redcoats kept watch over the horses, in the face of an increasingly agitated and demanding crowd.

Montagu at once spoke in low tones to Phineas Wise, who had seen his arrival and hurried forward. As he spoke, the captain’s eyes caught those of a worried Charlotte Willett. He stared at her with concern of his own, before he was captured by a look from Diana Longfellow. The conference with the tavern’s owner lasted only a moment more. Then, while Wise continued to shake his head, Montagu approached the two ladies whom he’d so often thought about lately, for different reasons.

“Captain Montagu!” Charlotte exclaimed softly. “I think we have proof our miller killed your merchant in Rhode Island.”

“Yes, but how the devil—”

Rapidly, Charlotte began to explain.

“There was a perfume bottle, given to Mary Frye by Peter Lynch, while he pressed her to marry him. She took the bottle because she was forced to, but was ashamed to show it to anyone. Diana has its twin, one of
a very few lately arrived on a ship now at anchor near Providence—” Montagu held up a hand in supplication, and she let her sentence trail off.

“Peter Lynch was seen along the waterfront, boasting and spending Dutch gold, as you say, Mrs. Willett. But of far more importance now is the man I’ve come for, the imposter in the red cloak you saw on Tuesday afternoon—”

Now, Edmund Montagu was forced to halt, when a group of boys burst into the Blue Boar. They soon set the place whirling like a hurricane.

“We’ve found the Frenchman! The murderer’s in the mill!” They chanted it eagerly, over and over, forcing all other conversation to stop short. “We’ve
found
him, and he’s gone into the room above!” their leader screeched. Behind him, someone climbed onto a table to shout, “Let’s get the beggar, and finish it!” A rasp of voices sounded an angry chorus.

“Throw him in the millpond, and see what he says!”

“Don’t wait to send him to Cambridge, or Worcester, where his friends be! Let’s do it now, and have it done—”

“Come on!”

A flurry erupted all around the room, as some tried to get to the door so as not to miss the excitement, while others attempted to pull themselves and their children out of harm’s way, out of view of what promised to be a grisly scene. Charlotte watched Esther Pennywort jump up and join the rest, no doubt going to find Jack—just as Richard Longfellow pushed into the room against the tide.

“Edmund,” he began as he reached the captain, “what’s to be gained by bringing—”

“Do your duty,” Montagu quietly ordered his two sailors, who turned and disappeared into the crowd. “You two stay here,” he added to Charlotte and Diana, while he grasped Longfellow’s shoulder. But they weren’t able to leave quite yet.

“Save him!” Diana implored, pulling on Montagu’s hand with strength enough to turn him back to her. It was a tense look he gave her—one that she would long remember with a thrill, and a certain pride.

Then the captain and her brother were gone, following the crowd that headed for the mill.

THE PLACE HAD
already been thoroughly searched. A few concerned with trespass had lately avoided it, as did many more who believed rumors that the mill now had its own ghost. All of these ideas made it a likely spot for Gabriel Fortier to hide.

Somewhat earlier, Mary had imagined herself unobserved as she crept around behind the millpond on the small path. But several boys playing a game of settlers and Indians had seen her going by. They, in turn, had eagerly and carefully crept after, and proved her undoing.

Like King Philip a century before, leading the Nipmucks, the Narragansetts, and his Wampanoag brothers against the settlers, the boys had been careful to keep out of sight until the moment called for action. They imagined that they, too, wielded guns and tomahawks, and that these tomahawks were much like the hatchet the Frenchman had recently used to destroy the miller, as most of their fathers maintained. And so it was with a mixture of terror and delight that they came to see a young woman in the arms of that very same murderer.

When they screamed, hoping to make him let go of her, they expected the woman to run behind them to safety. Instead, both had stood with looks of disbelief frozen on their faces. And then she had turned and run
up
the stairs to the mill’s second floor, where the large post of the grinding stone was held in place; next, the boys had seen the Frenchman go running after her, calling out her name.

Now, their shouts had created an extremely satisfactory chaos outside the mill, where fifty men debated what to do. Some wanted to smoke the Frenchman out; others urged someone should wait with a rifle, until he showed his face. Most simply wanted to storm the building.

All of their plans were short-lived. Edmund Montagu, back on his horse now and followed on foot by Richard Longfellow, cleared a way for the two redcoats who carried muskets set with bayonets. At the water’s edge the captain turned to address the enflamed crowd.

“There is
no reason”
he shouted over a barrage of threats and suggestions, “to go in after Gabriel Fortier, or to endanger the life of the young woman with him. But there is
every reason
for all of you to listen to me! The man who was said to catch fire last Tuesday evening was not, as you must know, the merchant, Duncan Middleton. But he
was
someone who arranged for that man to be killed! Middleton’s body was found washed ashore on Tuesday morning, near Providence. Yet on Tuesday afternoon,
after
the discovery of that body, someone else walked through Bracebridge wearing Middleton’s clothes, carrying a supply of Dutch coins obtained by the merchant in a recent exchange. That man then caused himself to disappear, to cover up the real murder of Middleton, which he himself could not have committed—but which he had
caused to happen
by promising payment to your own Peter Lynch!”

Now a different sort of cry rose from the crowd—one of outrage mingled with disbelief.

“Who was it killed the miller, then?” one man shouted. Others quickly turned to ask each other the same. In the new commotion, Montagu’s horse tripped and turned with a discomfort that matched its rider’s, while those next to it warily moved back.

“That is of only secondary importance at the moment,” Montagu argued with consternation.

“What about my boy?” came a sharp cry from Rachel Dudley, who had followed the crowd hoping to learn more of her son’s death. She finished with a sob that did much to still the violence in those around her, at least for the moment.

“They’re saying it was no accident that killed Sam,” the bereaved woman continued. “Well, no one cared about this man Middleton—no one knew
him
! All they really cared about was his gold. No one even minds what happened to Peter Lynch, who surely deserved what he got. But Sam was only an innocent boy! So you tell me, who would want to murder
my
son?”

“It’s nearly certain that he, too, was killed by the miller, for something he saw,” Montagu called down to her, “and for that, I’m truly sorry. I believe your boy frightened Lynch, though he might not have known it. But there’s one here who’s responsible for
all
of this! A man who arranged to have his own brother killed—a man assumed dead by all those who insist on believing
what they read in the newspapers
—a man thought to be drowned in a shipwreck three years ago! I have brought two of his former shipmates from Boston; they can rely on their own eyes to tell them the truth, and will say if
Lionel
Middleton is still here, maintaining his masquerade!”

Montagu pointed, and the crowd turned to see the two sailors in an upper window of the Blue Boar, waving their arms, then shaking their heads violently—while from another window Diana, and Charlotte behind her, leaned out and pointed back. Taking the hint, many turned around again, to see a stream of smoke rising from the base of the mill; it was immediately followed by a sheet of flames that began to climb the outer walls of the old wooden building with a roar, racing into its upper story.

Suddenly, the crowd was electrified by the knowledge that two innocent young people were trapped inside, and would soon burn before their eyes. Immediately,
water pails and a ladder were rushed from the tavern; others ran to nearby homes to bring more buckets. Few noticed a lone figure leading a horse from the stable behind the Blue Boar; few heard the approaching clatter of iron shoes on the road.

There was a scream from the crowd as Mary and Gabriel appeared in an upper window. Together, they stood on the brink, in the midst of a flow of black smoke that was already filled with bright sparks. Both were choking, trying desperately to fill their lungs with air. Then, still together, hand in hand, the pair leaped out into the air, and fell down into the millpond.

In a few moments, Mary Frye was pulled out of the pool by several men, to be bundled into a blanket and rushed off by a group of solicitous women. Gabriel still clutched at water weeds and struggled to get his footing on the millpond’s muddy bottom, until the strong arm of Nathan Browne reached out to him, hesitated briefly, then slowly pulled him to the bank and safety.

By this time, two lines passed to and from the fire; these were manned by most of the able-bodied, while the two old quails, Tinder and Flint, stood back and shouted lustily at the flames, as if together they might somehow blow them out.

“But where,” cried an elderly farm wife, who had been trying to think of something to do, “is this
other
man the captain accused? The one who’s responsible for all that’s happened? Is he going to get away?”

As it happened, her question was answered almost immediately. Six redcoats and a third sailor now rode down toward the town bridge from the direction of Boston. Between them, his hands bound and his head low, rode the finally defeated naturalist, Adolphus Lee.