Death in Salem (9 page)

“They were built by wealthy families like the Derbys. William brought much of the treasure you saw in the cellar through the tunnels.”

“Do they all intersect?” Rees asked, imagining a web of tunnels that ran underground. Peggy shook her head.

“Some do, some don't. A man has to travel these tunnels many years to learn all of the twists. And now Mr. Derby—Elias Haskett Junior, that is—plans to extend them further.” Peggy stepped forward, her face a pale ghostly oval above her dark clothing. But she did not go far, pausing about twenty feet away. In the dim lantern light, Rees could just barely make out the junction of another tunnel ahead, marked with wooden columns.

“My father lay here when we found him,” Peggy said, gesturing to a spot on the floor close to the wall.

“Lantern, please,” Rees said, extending his hand. Peggy put the lamp into his hand and backed into the darkness. Rees heard the catches and soft cries of suppressed weeping. Betsy might claim a delicate sensibility, but it was Peggy who felt her father's death most keenly.

Rees knelt upon the ground. Blood, a pool of it, marked Mr. Boothe's final position. Not as much blood as Rees might have expected; Mr. Boothe's clothing had absorbed some and the dirt between the stones had taken the rest. But the man had lain here for some time, his blood pouring from him. Rees hoped Boothe had quickly lost consciousness and not realized what was happening to him. Lying alone, in the dark, was a terrible way to die.

“If someone fired a gun down here,” Rees said, “would those above hear it?”

“Probably,” Peggy said from the darkness, her voice roughened with tears. “Sometimes I can hear my brother.” She stopped short, biting off her words. “No one would use a gun unless forced; there might be a danger of collapse. Why?”

“Your father was stabbed,” Rees said in an absent tone. “I was wondering why. I mean, instead of being shot. But I suppose everyone knows the tunnels might collapse.”

“Perhaps,” Peggy said. Her voice, coming through the gloom, sounded uncertain.

“And where do these tunnels lead?” Rees asked. “To the docks, yes? Where else?”

“To the warehouses and the counting houses. Some of the tunnels are already abandoned, but I would suppose that sometimes a family might build a new one. I don't really know. Women don't often come down here.”

“But your brothers do,” Rees said, rising to his feet.

“Well, sometimes. The tunnels are a labyrinth, not easy to learn,” Peggy said. “William uses only the one that leads from the warehouse to home. He's forgotten the other ways.”

“So Matthew is the one you hear down here, isn't he?” When she didn't respond, he added in a stern voice, “I know you wish to protect him but please, do me the courtesy of telling the truth.”

“He would never kill Father,” Peggy said, stepping forward into the light. “You must understand, he is a young man. He … enjoys life.”

“He frequents the brothels on the docks and gambles,” Rees interpreted.

“He also attends play rehearsals,” she said. “There's a groups that meets.” As Rees stared down at the dark pool at his feet, he wondered if Mr. Boothe senior also enjoyed the services offered at the docks. Had he stopped in at the brothels? Was he also a gambler? Rees had seen no signs of such a vice; money appeared plentiful. But some men were skilled at hiding their afflictions.

“Let's return to the house,” Peggy said, drawing her cloak more tightly around her. “I'm cold.”

“Very well,” Rees said. He held the lantern high for one final look around. In the dim light he spotted a strange shadow on the wall. It was an indentation in the stony soil. He examined it closely, running his hands over it. It felt as though the sharp point of something, a sword perhaps, had pierced the wall. When he held up his hand, the fingers were smudged. He suspected it was dried blood. The image of Jacob Boothe, pinned against the wall by some weapon, made Rees shudder.

“Please, Mr. Rees,” Peggy said. “Let's go.” Rees nodded and stepped away from the wall.

“Yes,” he said, “it is chilly down here.” But although the cool damp air was seeping through his jacket, he was not shivering because of the cold. He thrust his trembling hands into his jacket pockets, and as Peggy swept past him he followed her to the wooden door set so incongruously into the stone wall. “Who found Mr. Boothe?” he asked as he bent his head to pass into the cellar. After the gloom of the tunnels, the basement inside seemed warm and welcoming.

“I did,” she said. “He hadn't come in for breakfast, you see, and he wasn't anywhere in the house.” A sniffle interrupted her speech. Rees looked around at the boxes and bales, the striking statuary, and the glitter of jewels and precious metals.

“Maybe robbery
was
the motive,” he muttered. “This cellar is full of treasure.”

“Did you say robbery, Mr. Rees?” Peggy said as she brushed past him to lock the door.

“It's something Deputy Swett mentioned.” Rees reconsidered the possibility. “Is this door always kept locked?”

“Usually.” She paused and when she continued she sounded regretful. “It always will be now. Since my father's m–murder,” she stumbled over the word, “everyone is frightened.”

Rees nodded in understanding. “Who had keys?”

“My father. This is his key.” Peggy turned to look at Rees. “But almost no one other than family travels that tunnel we were just in. That's why William brought the valuables home through the tunnel; so no one would see them and steal them.”

“If your father had the only key,” Rees said, “then how did you open this door to find him?”

“Oh.” Peggy looked startled. “There is another key. It hangs outside his office.” She held the lantern up and peered into Rees's face. Although pale, she'd regained her composure. “It is still there, Mr. Rees. I saw it this morning. I assure you, no one is breaking into the house from the tunnels. Common sailors don't use them. William is imagining a problem where none exists. And my father was not murdered for a handful of guineas and a pocket watch.” She reached out and clasped Rees's hands. “You'll find the man who murdered my father, won't you Mr. Rees?” Rees nodded. But, although he did not argue with her, he thought robbery might be an excellent motive for murder. Especially if the thief was a member of Jacob Boothe's family.

 

Chapter Eight

As soon as they reached the top of the stairs they heard Betsy's voice, interspersed with deeper male tones, floating out from the breakfast room. “That's Matthew,” Peggy told Rees as she removed her cloak. They crossed the hall to the breakfast room. Betsy was regaling her brother with some long-winded story involving her dressmaker. She stopped abruptly when her sister and Rees stepped through the door.

Rees nodded at her, but his attention focused upon the one member of the Boothe family he had not yet met. Rees recalled seeing Matthew outside the housekeeper's room where Jacob Boothe's body lay, but since the boy had gotten ill and quickly fled, Rees had only a confused impression of fair hair.

Matthew rose slowly to his feet and turned to face Rees. A young man of about twenty-one, he resembled his sisters, sharing their blue eyes and light hair and Peggy's sharp nose. But his chin lacked the definition of Peggy's and betrayed a weakness of character. Matthew sought to disguise his chin with a sparse beard and even sparser mustache. He smelled powerfully of stale wine, and his black breeches and coat looked as though he'd slept in them.

“So, what have we here?” the young man said, regarding Rees derisively down that long pointed nose.

“He's looking into Father's death,” Peggy said. “At my request.” Matthew glared at his sister. With last night's Madeira still coursing in his veins, he was belligerent and quarrelsome.

“I know what he's doing,” he snapped. “Prying into our lives.”

Peggy laughed. “Please Mattie, behave. Mr. Rees is trying to help us. Save your bellicosity for your lowborn friends.” Rees thought her attitude of amused disdain toward her brother was more like that of an older sister than a younger, and he wasn't surprised when Matthew took offense.

“And who gave you the authority to employ him,” Matthew argued, scowling at Peggy.

“It was your brother William who hired me,” Rees said. Matthew turned to Rees, taking a few threatening steps forward as though he might attempt a punch. But even though Rees was fifteen or so years older, he also overtopped the younger man by seven or eight inches and at least seventy-five pounds. Matthew thought better of it and retreated.

“You don't care who murdered your father?” Rees asked, pitching his voice very low and quiet.

Matthew looked startled. “Course I do,” he said, dropping into his chair with sullen discourtesy. “But why are you bothering
us
?”

“I'm talking to everyone who knew your father,” Rees said. Was it grief inspiring this rudeness in Matthew, or guilt? “I assume you all knew him best and might be able to point the way to his killer.”

Matthew's eyebrows lifted and then, very slowly, he nodded. “I see. You should speak to my uncles then. They never liked my father. Especially Dickie. I heard what happened at the funeral.” Rees turned his eyes toward Peggy. If pressed, he would have identified her as the person Dickie had been accusing at the funeral.

“Everyone was grieving, Mattie,” Betsy said. “Especially Dickie. You know how attached he is—was—to Mother. I think you read too much into his drunken ravings.”

“It was only Dickie,” Peggy said, moving around Rees. “Really, Mattie, you know better than anyone how high-strung he is. The two of you used to quarrel all the time. Adam and Edward were quite apologetic at the averil. Has Edward said anything to you at your play rehearsals?”

“We are too busy to discuss family business,” Matthew replied curtly.

“I wish you hadn't told me about Dickie's little scene as soon as you came inside,” Betsy said to her sister. “Mr. Morris gave me such a look. I was so mortified. Sometimes you are as thoughtless as Dickie about speaking out of turn. Of course I hastened to tell Mr. Morris that we rarely see that branch of the family. I didn't want him to assume…”

“There's something wrong with that boy,” Xenobia said from the door, startling everyone. Rees wondered how long she had been standing there. She stepped confidently into the room. Here, among the Boothe family, Xenobia seemed more comfortable than she'd been when first meeting Rees.

“You frightened me, Obie,” Betsy said, widening her eyes reproachfully.

“Dickie has always been afflicted with queer fits. Your Mother died peacefully in her sleep, going to meet her Maker with a smile upon her face. And so I tried to tell him.”

“I'm sure Mr. Rees doesn't want to hear this tittle-tattle,” Peggy said, meeting Rees's gaze over her brother's head.

“If he is truly interested in Father's killer,” Matthew said, pursing his lips and directing a challenging stare at Rees, “then he should pester Dickie Coville.”

“I will,” Rees promised. He'd intended to visit the Covilles anyway. “Do they live around here?”

“The Covilles do live in Salem,” Peggy replied. “But not around here. They're a sailing family, too.”

“Whaling,” corrected Matthew with a contemptuous snort. “Not at all the same thing as us merchants. They live near Salem Neck. I think you'll find my father's murderer there.”

Rees nodded but said nothing. He would speak to the Covilles of course; his investigation was far too young to assume anyone's innocence. But already he did not trust Matthew. Besides his rackety life, the gambling and playacting, which no doubt demanded a great deal of money, he betrayed too much eagerness to pin the crime upon his uncles to suit Rees.

And who better to approach Jacob Boothe in the tunnels than his own son? No doubt Matthew knew them nearly as well as his father. Rees reflected upon Jacob Boothe—a kindly gentleman, he would never suspect his own son of malicious intent.

“Do you know Miss Georgianne Foster's address?” Rees asked abruptly, trying to startle Matthew into an admission. But the young man uttered a braying laugh.

“So, you've gotten on to her already. I admit I'm surprised.”

“Mr. Rees comes highly recommended,” Peggy said, frowning at her brother. She elected not to mention that it was Twig who had suggested him.

“I daresay it does not take tremendous intelligence to snoop,” Matthew said. Rees did not react. “Mrs. Foster lives somewhere near Essex Street. On Turner, I believe. She rents a room to another lady. Her cousin, I think.”

“I had no idea you knew so much about her,” Peggy said. “How did you uncover all of that?”

“Followed Father, of course. Well, what else was I to do? You girls couldn't do it and William was in Baltimore; I wanted to know in what nonsense Father was involved.” He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“And what was that?” Rees asked in a quiet, indifferent tone, afraid if he betrayed too much interest Matthew would stop talking.

“Surely Papa wasn't in love with that woman,” Betsy cried, widening her blue eyes in horror. “A lowborn woman of the streets.”

“How do you know she is lowborn?” Peggy asked, shooting her sister a mocking grin. “Or of the streets?”

“Of course she is,” Betsy said with certainty.

“Father would never have married her,” Matthew said. “Not unless he was a bigger fool than I believe.”

“Why not?” Rees spoke even more quietly.

“She was a ladybird, of course. Entirely unsuitable. She claims to be a widow but I have my doubts. I daresay she will be looking for another protector, now that Father is gone.” Turning his gaze to Rees, he added, “You should speak to her as well. Maybe my father refused to marry her and she killed him.”