Death of a Dyer (21 page)

“We think she ran off to get married,” Susannah explained, also rising to her feet. “I do wish she’d said something.…”

Rees remained in his seat as Susannah and Jack returned to their customers. He drained his cup in one draft, frustration mixing with regret. He just didn’t know enough about Nate, not anymore. The boy Rees remembered had become a stranger and he could not guess whom Nate had angered so greatly that they battered him to death.

Suddenly aware of Susannah’s ferocious glare, Rees shot to his feet. It was approaching midday and dinnertime, and she wanted this table for paying customers. Throwing a penny on the table to appease her, he left the coffeehouse, thinking hard as he tramped to his wagon. James Carleton was at the center of this mystery, and he was afraid. It was time to press him for answers. And that Mr. Lattimore, whose letters Rees had found in the trunk, certainly knew some of Nate’s secrets. He must be found and questioned. But today Rees would get to the bottom of the trunk under Nate’s bed.

Rees turned his wagon west, toward the Bowditch farm.

Although he spent most of the drive to the cottage cocooned in fog, by the time he reached Nate’s farm, the gray shroud had finally begun to thin. He pulled into the hidden clearing, tethered Bessie to a tree and picked up Rachel’s shawl, now rather dirty and battered from its time in the wagon bed. He would leave it in the cottage. He plunged into the trees. Droplets of water filmed the leaves, and the rocks underfoot were slick with moisture. When he stepped out of the break, the weaver’s cottage was visible but dreamlike in its diaphanous coat of vapor.

As Rees started across the meadow, the window in the front room flew up and a musket barrel stabbed out. Warned by the sound of the window sliding up the casement, he threw himself to one side just as the musket discharged. He felt the sting of the ball as it sliced through his left arm. Blood immediately darkened his coat sleeve. Spurred by anger and, yes, fear, too, and unaware of the pain, Rees jumped to his feet and began running toward the house. He did not go through the front door but around the side. Just as he expected, the shooter had torn out the back door and was running down the slope toward the pond. Richard Bowditch. Rees put on a burst of speed and flung himself forward, tackling the slighter figure and bearing him to the ground with his greater weight. Richard, his expression terrified, clawed furiously at the bigger man.

“You foolish boy!” Rees grasped Richard’s hands and pinned him to the ground. “I’m not going to hurt you. Why did you shoot me? Does Marsh know you’re hiding here? Does your mother?” Of course they did. Panting, and with his wound beginning to sting, Rees relaxed and let his weight hold the boy down.

“He’s been shot!” Marsh shouted, thudding up behind Rees and clutching at his shoulders. Rees released his grip on Richard and allowed himself to be tugged away. The boy did not move. He remained on the ground, trying to catch his breath.

“What are you doing to my son?” Molly screamed.

“Trying to save his fool life,” Rees said angrily, looking up. “He can’t run and hide forever.”

Lydia, Rachel, and Mary Martha, clustered together in the cottage door, were brushed aside like flies as Molly Bowditch raced toward her son. “Leave him alone.”

Rees snapped, “Do you want to see your son hanged? This isn’t just about clearing Richard’s name, you know. Until we identify Nate’s killer, everyone who might be guilty will be suspected of the murder. And right now, Richard is the primary suspect. Someone who thinks he is guilty, or has an itchy trigger finger, or is drunk and angry, or there’s no one else will go after Richard. He will make a handy target. Is that what you want?”

Molly blanched. Richard scrambled to his feet and rushed to her side. “Augie is in jail,” she protested, grasping her son’s arm. “He’s guilty—”

“And the jail burned down last night,” Rees said. Rachel uttered an involuntary scream. “Why is your son running away from me? Is he guilty? If so, you’d better counsel him to flee to the frontier. He won’t be safe anywhere in Dugard.”

Molly’s hand crept up to her mouth.

“Is this necessary?” Richard demanded, glancing anxiously at his mother.

“And I need to speak to you,” Rees said.

Molly’s furious glare could have peeled bark. “He is not his father’s killer,” she protested.

“I want to speak to you now,” Rees said to Richard. “By tomorrow you’ll be gone again.”

“I won’t run,” Richard said, raising his eyes to meet the Rees’s gaze. “I give you my word.” Rees inspected the young man’s expression. Richard managed a lopsided smile. “I’m tired of running.”

“Go home. Tend to your wound.” Molly said, turning to Rees. “My son gave his word.…”

“Very well,” Rees said in assent. His wound was beginning to burn like a stripe of fire. “But I will return tomorrow. And I’ll bring the constable.”

“Return to your duties, all of you,” Molly commanded, gesturing at the other women. She linked arms with her son and they disappeared into the cottage. Rachel, after casting an anxious glance at Rees, reluctantly followed them and, after a stern frown from Marsh, the others joined her. Only Lydia did not move.

“Miss Farrell,” Marsh said. Reluctantly she trailed Rachel into the cottage.

Marsh put one bluish-tinted hand upon Rees’s right shoulder. “Come up to the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll dress your wound.”

“A moment,” Rees said. “I have Rachel’s shawl.”

“Rachel’s shawl?” Marsh repeated as they walked around the cottage.

“I must have dropped it.”

“Where did you find it?” Marsh asked

“Juniper said it came down with the soiled body linen,” Rees said. He pointed to the bright garment lying upon the grass.

“How did it find its way into the laundry?” Marsh wondered as he hurried forward to pick it up. His dark fingers smoothed the trailing yarn. “Rachel won’t be pleased to see this damage. She’ll have to knit it all again.…”

Rees said nothing. The pain from his wound now radiated down his arm to his elbow and hand.

Marsh glanced at him and at the blood soaking his jacket. “Go to the kitchen. I’ll patch you up. I just want to put this inside.…”

Rees trudged up the dry lane. Although he’d been shot during the War, he did not remember the wound hurting quite so much as this. Hard to believe a small metal ball that struck him such a glancing blow could cause such pain.

When Marsh rejoined him and they walked up the slope, Rees felt every footfall throbbing through his arm. Marsh glanced at him and took his right elbow. “You’re as white as a sheet,” he said. Rees nodded. He felt hot, too, and perspiration ran down his face in a stream.

Rachel had already put a roll of linen strips and a basin on the table. As Marsh took the basin to the barrel to fill it, Rees collapsed heavily in the chair. Lydia brought over a cup of coffee, liberally sugared and floating with cream. “Drink this,” she said. “It will make you feel better.”

“Rachel,” Rees whispered to the cook, “Augustus is with me. Don’t worry.” Rachel gasped but she dared not vent her emotions by speaking. Instead, as Marsh approached, she spun around to the fireplace, stirring up the flames through a haze of happy tears.

First Rees’s coat had to come off. Marsh helped Lydia pull the right sleeve down, Rees biting the inside of his cheek as the other sleeve dragged painfully over the wound. That was the worst of it; Marsh eased the left sleeve down and dropped the coat on the floor to reveal the bloody shirtsleeve. Lydia cut away the soft worn linen and then carefully bathed the wound free of blood.

“The ball just grazed you,” Marsh said. “It’ll be stiff for a while but you should be fine in a few days.”

Rees managed a faint smile. “You can look at it tomorrow when I visit.”

Lydia unwound a strip of linen and wrapped it around Rees’s arm. “You aren’t going to be able to manage the reins home,” she said.

“Maybe this is a message,” Marsh said. “It’s time to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Rees glared at the other man. “No. I meant what I told Mrs. Bowditch. Richard will never lose the taint of suspicion. Maybe he is the killer, but if he isn’t, he needs to be declared innocent.”

“Are you sure this isn’t about revenge?” Marsh asked. Rees looked into the other man’s dark eyes. Marsh did not look away.

“It’s about justice. You were fond of Nate. Don’t you want to see his killer caught? And you’re fond of Richard and Augustus. Surely you want them freed of suspicion?” Marsh didn’t say anything immediately, but Rees could see words trembling on his tongue. “What?”

“Your investigation seems to be stirring up the mud,” Marsh said.

Rees nodded. “I warned both your mistress and Mr. Potter that once I begin looking into a murder, I do not stop until I find the answer. Usually that results in stirring up a lot of mud.”

His expression troubled, Marsh said no more.

“You can’t drive yourself home,” Lydia said, more insistently. She looked at Marsh. “Can we spare a groom?”

“I doubt the mistress will permit that,” he said.

She nodded and threw the linen roll to the table. “In that case, I’ll drive him to Dugard.”

Both the men regarded her, appalled.

“Of course you can’t,” Marsh said.

“I can manage myself,” Rees said at the same moment.

Lydia said nothing. She collected her bonnet from the hook and put it on. As she walked to the door, she picked up Rees’s jacket. When he did not immediately follow, she said, “Shall we go?”

Marsh looked at Rees. He shrugged and, after struggling to his feet, followed her.

Neither one spoke as they descended the hill, Rees because he felt shaky. Lydia looked around curiously as they traversed the tree break but didn’t comment.

She went to the passenger side and held out her arm, ready to assist Rees into the seat. He ignored her and hauled himself into the driver seat with his good arm. He picked up the reins.

“You aren’t able to drive home,” she insisted.

“I’m fine,” Rees said curtly, discovering his left arm had no strength. Cursing his choice of Amos this morning instead of Bessie, who was a sweet-tempered and biddable mare, Rees looped the reins around his right hand. He slapped them down and Amos jolted forward into a walk. Rees didn’t dare go any faster. The tendons on the back of his hand and the muscles in his forearm and biceps were already beginning to ache with the strain.

“Will, you are injured. And you aren’t a boy anymore. Please, allow me to take the reins.” Lydia said with an audible exasperation.

Rees shook his head.

They continued on at a walk. The slow pace offered Rees the opportunity for some hard thinking. Richard certainly behaved like a guilty man. So why didn’t it feel right? Well, for one thing, he thought, answering his own question, Marsh had secrets of his own. And he was a strong healthy man with connections to the Bowditch family. And he’d lied about visiting his sister at the time of Nate’s murder.

“Did you speak to Rachel?” Rees asked Lydia, his thoughts veering in another direction.

“I had to, didn’t I?” She cast him a sardonic glance. “I told her you and I were friends and swore her to secrecy.” She paused and then added slowly, “I believe that helped rather than hurt. She felt comfortable talking to me then. She apologized and assured me she … she only wants to protect her son.”

Rees caught the hesitation and looked at her, wondering what Lydia had chosen to keep from him. “And?”

“Rachel was frank about the estrangement between herself and her son. Augustus has never forgiven her for not accepting Nate’s offer to free her.” Lydia drew her brows together. “I don’t think he knows the whole story. Rachel wants to remain as she is.”

“Maybe Marsh has something to do with that,” Rees suggested. “They work closely together—”

Lydia shook her head. “I believe Marsh is already married. No, Rachel is afraid of something. I don’t know what, but even living at the beck and call of Mrs. Bowditch is better than leaving the safety of the farm and her kitchen.”

“You met Mrs. Bowditch?”

“We spoke for only a few moments,” Lydia said carefully. “I saw her for too short a time to develop an impression.”

“Ahh. You didn’t like her,” Rees said. He pulled Amos to a stop. He had to rest his right arm. The muscles were beginning to cramp and his hand trembled from the effort of gripping the reins.

“You’re behaving foolishly,” Lydia scolded. “Let me drive for a while.”

Rees imagined his arrival in Dugard with a woman holding the reins and shook his head once more.

“I’ll change places with you before we reach the town,” Lydia insisted. “You can drive in, if you must. But at least let me offer you a few moments’ rest.”

Rees looked at her. She met his gaze, her dark blue eyes stern. Finally he nodded. He tried to climb down, but his right arm was too tired to hold his weight and he half fell into the dust. Lydia slid over and picked up the reins. He struggled a little to climb into the seat but once his foot was on the step, he used his powerful legs to push himself up. With a slap of the leather ribbons upon Amos’s withers, they started off once again.

“You’ve driven yourself before,” Rees said, watching her hands.

“Not a wagon, a curricle,” she admitted. “And not often. I’m more experienced riding a horse.…”

He nodded, thinking that he should be more used to the double nature of women. He knew, better than most men, that the females in one’s life were not the frail sex. Pressed by exigency, they could be as strong and as courageous as any man, able to jump in and do a man’s work when necessary. It was just difficult for a man to accept that
his
woman, the woman he loved, did not need to rely upon him completely.

“Did you know Richard was hiding in the cottage?” Lydia asked him now, breaking into his thoughts.

“No. I had another purpose. Did you?”

“Of course not, else I would have told you. I suspect only Mrs. Bowditch knew. And maybe Marsh.”

That made sense, Rees thought.

“Do you think Richard killed his father?” Lydia asked.

“I don’t know.” Rees said with a sigh. “All of the evidence points to him, and God knows he thought he had reason. Caldwell assumes that, because he ran, he’s guilty. But he didn’t run far. This is what I don’t understand. If he is guilty, why not deny it in court and take his chances? I doubt he’d ever see the business end of a rope. Nobody’s eager to send the son of a large and wealthy landowner to the gallows.”