Death of a Dyer (22 page)

Lydia looked at him, startled. “You’re right, of course,” she said.

“Richard claims he’s innocent. Maybe he is.”

“We’re missing something.”

Rees, noticing the plural, smiled at her and shook his head, ruefully this time. How quickly she had put herself into partnership.

Lydia pulled over in the outskirts of town, and she and Rees switched places. He knew it was a mistake as soon as they’d traveled a few feet. His right forearm and hand, already tired from the previous stretch, began to burn and tremble. He said nothing. Although his world narrowed to the reins in front of him and the fire racing up and down his arm, he vowed to make it into town.

Chapter Seventeen

He managed to drive the half mile or so to the remains of the jail, pulling to a stop with an involuntary groan of relief. Releasing the reins sent a shock of pain through his clenched hand, quickly followed by an intense tingling as the blood began to flow once again.

The smell of smoke and burning still lingered in the air. Lydia regarded the soot-streaked ruin, the jail cells open to the sky, in horrified dismay. “Thank the Lord you rescued Augustus,” she said.

“A drifter died in the other cell,” Rees said, “so this is still murder.”

Caldwell, walking around and around the destruction, saw them and ambled over to the wagon. He cast a curious glance at Lydia, but most of his attention focused upon Rees. “What in Hell happened to you!” the constable exclaimed.

“Richard shot me,” Rees said, climbing down very slowly and painfully from the seat.

“What?”

“He was hiding in the weaver’s cottage. When I approached it, he shot me. I suppose he was scared.”

“Well, I’ll go right out there and arrest that boy,” Caldwell said.

“And where will you put him? You have no jail. I told him and his mother we’d go out tomorrow morning and talk to him together.”

“You think he’ll wait for you?” Caldwell asked with a mocking chuckle. “I swear, he’d be in the next state by then.”

“He gave his word.”

“And you believed him? You’re soft on him. He was seen both entering and leaving the cottage within a few minutes of his father’s death.”

“I don’t doubt he struck his father, but he didn’t have enough time to beat him to death.”

“He could have returned later,” Caldwell said.

Rees nodded reluctantly. “True. But so could someone else.” He looked at the constable, wondering if he knew of the lay-by. Probably not.

“You’d better get home,” Caldwell said, offering his arm to assist Rees into the wagon seat. His powerful odor on top of the pain made Rees retch, throwing up his breakfast into the muddy street. Lydia jumped down and together she and Caldwell shoved Rees up into the wagon seat. Rees saw her nostrils clench, and she backed away from the constable as rapidly as she could.

Once she was back onto the seat, the constable slapped Amos on the rump and the gelding jumped forward, almost toppling Rees to the ground. He threw his weight backwards, pulling on the reins with all his strength. Amos slowed to a walk. Rees could feel the slow crawl of blood leaking out from underneath the bandage on his left arm.

Lydia’s scared and angry expression said everything as she climbed down and circled around the wagon to the driver seat. Rees moved over enough to allow her to climb up. She took the reins from his hand and slapped them down upon the gelding’s back. Amos broke into a trot. Rees gasped as the jolting gait of the horse sent a throb of pain into his arm with every step, but he refused to complain.

After an eternity of pounding, the churned dirt of the turn into the drive appeared before them. Rees’s right arm was almost too tired to hold on. Amos lurched to a stop in front of the farmhouse. Lydia climbed down and sped around the wagon to help Rees dismount. He leaned upon her more than he wished and still hit the ground with a thud. He groaned. The front door slammed and Abby came out upon the porch. Uttering a squeak of consternation, she ran down the steps and put his right arm across her skinny shoulders. Rees could feel the wiry strength in her body.

“What happened, Miss Lydia?”

“Richard Bowditch shot him.”

“Just a flesh wound,” Rees grunted.

Together the two women got him into the chair in the kitchen. While Abby swung the teakettle over the fire, Lydia hurried into the larder to fetch her medical supplies. She laid out scissors, linen strips, and a basin. Snipping through the now blood-sodden bandage, she bent forward to examine the wound. “This looks nice and clean,” she said. “I think it is overuse that started the bleeding again.”

Rees said nothing. All he could think of just then was her sweet scent of lavender and honey. His entire body flushed with heat as the pain retreated before his desire. He dared not speak.

Abby poured steaming water into the basin and Lydia threw a selection of dried leaves into it. A sharp acrid odor filled the air. Wetting a rag in the solution, she gently began cleaning the bloody gash. “So far, it is not suppurating,” she said, adding in annoyance, “What was that boy thinking?”

Rees shook his head.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Abby said.

“Sit in the parlor for a few moments and rest,” Lydia commanded.

Rees nodded obediently. The wound and the harrowing journey home had worn him down to the nubbin. Lydia helped him rise but he lumbered into the parlor under his own power. Subsiding upon the horsehair sofa with a groan, he allowed his eyes to close.

*   *   *

Rees awoke late in the afternoon. For a moment, still caught in a confused dream in which Philip, the Iroquois guide he’d known in the Continental Army, wore Nate’s apron, Rees did not know where he was. He’d fallen sideways and now his neck hurt. But someone had removed his shoes and covered him with a light summer quilt. He sat up, the movement sending a throb of pain through his injured arm. Although a little woozy from sleeping in the afternoon, he did feel better. He flexed his right hand. The muscles ached all the way to his shoulder; his uninjured arm, in fact, hurt more than the one with the gunshot wound. He slipped his feet into his shoes and walked into the kitchen.

Humming a Shaker hymn, Lydia was sorting the laundry. Although some clothing had been ironed, Rees noticed that almost a full basket remained. She smiled at him. “You’re awake sooner than I expected,” she said.

Rees sat down at the table. “I’m starving,” he said.

“You missed dinner,” she said, moving the piles of clean linens from the kitchen table.

“What did you give me?”

“A drop or two of laudanum.” She paused. “You needed the sleep.”

Although irked by her duplicity, he couldn’t argue with the result. “Where’s the girl?”

“Helping David milk.” Lydia went to the larder and brought out a loaf of chewy fresh baked bread and a piece of cold egg pie. “I’m more than pleased with her,” she added as she stirred up the fire and pushed the kettle over the flames.

“And Augustus?”

“With David and Abby.” She paused, the poker hanging from her hand. “Apparently he did not remember the way of it and had to be retaught.”

“That’s good. I’ll be no good for milking for several days,” Rees said.

Lydia smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll manage.” Dropping the poker, she took a cream-colored envelope down from the gray stone mantel. “This was delivered today.” As Rees broke the seal, she said, “The boy who delivered it said it is an invitation to the memorial service.”

Rees skimmed the page inside. Nate’s memorial would be held at St. John’s Church at ten thirty, at the end of the regular seven o’clock Sunday service, with dinner to follow at the Bowditch farm.

“Will you attend?” Lydia asked.

“Of course. I owe it to Nate.” And, with Marsh busy with so many guests, Rees would have a perfect opportunity to search the wooden chest under the bed. And return Molly’s love letters to it. Rising to his feet, he added, “I will check on the kids. One of the Bristols should be arriving soon for Abby.”

He could hear Abby’s high-pitched laughter as soon as he stepped out of the house. He walked quickly toward the barn and peered inside. From his position by the door, David was hidden behind the stall wall. But Rees could see Abby perched upon the stool, her hands expertly pulling at the cow’s teats. The hissing stream of milk into the bucket never faltered. She did not rest her head against the cow’s flank but kept her face turned toward David, directing all her attention to him. Augustus might as well have been invisible. David, bantering with the girl, regularly directed comments to the other lad but Augustus answered in monosyllables. Rees suspected Augustus wished he were anywhere but in the barn with the other two. Rees understood. The courtship dance was both embarrassing and irritating to the excluded.

As he retreated from the barn and started back to the house, he realized he and David would have to talk.

Pain woke Rees several times during the night when he rolled onto his wounded arm. When he climbed out of bed he knew he would not be able to drive himself to the Bowditch farm today. Oh, the lips of the wound stung and the area around the injury burned! Although the sympathetic pain down his forearm had disappeared, he found he couldn’t lift his left arm above his waist.

When he went downstairs, Lydia was waiting for him, a basin of warm water and a fresh roll of linen before her. “David harnessed Bessie to the buggy for you,” she said, cutting away the bandage. “And I’ll drive you to Dugard.” She leaned forward and inspected the wound. “This looks better, although it’s still seeping a little. Does it hurt?” Rees nodded. She painted it with some herbal concoction before winding another bandage over it. The pain diminished slightly.

When he finished breakfast they hurried outside. Augustus waited by the buggy, stroking Bessie’s nose. Rees looked at the sky, glad to accept that vehicle today. Gray clouds clotted the western sky like heavy cream. Although rain wasn’t falling yet, he expected showers within the hour.

“Are you any closer to finding the man who murdered my father?” Augustus asked as he offered his arm to help Rees up to the step. When Rees glanced over, Augustus managed a lopsided smile and said, “I don’t care only for myself. I know I didn’t kill him, but I want the person responsible found and punished.”

Rees did not answer until he was secure in the seat and Lydia had joined him and taken hold of the reins. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said. “I’m still working on it.” He hesitated, wondering if he should tell Augustus about the jail, but decided it would be too cruel. “You told me you never visited your father at the farm. Is that true?”

Augustus nodded. “Completely. I knew Mrs. Bowditch didn’t want me there.”

“And you’re estranged from your mother?”

“My father offered to free her, as he did me. She refused. Refused!” His voice rose with his outrage. “What’s wrong with her that she should prefer servitude?”

“I don’t know,” Rees said, glancing at Lydia. “But I’m sure she has her reasons.” Life could be so much clearer to the young, without the nuance of experience. “Maybe she was in love with your father. Or maybe she had a frightening experience with slave catchers.” Augustus stared at Rees, the suggestion, and the revelation that followed it, sending a ripple of horrified understanding across his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when I learn something.”

Lydia looked at Rees and smacked the reins lightly on Bessie’s back. They started forward, Bessie’s gait smoother than Amos’s rough trot. Lydia kept the mare moving at a steady pace and they arrived in Dugard in reasonable time. Caldwell was waiting for them outside the jail’s blackened skeleton. Although he seemed surprised to see Lydia in the driver’s seat, he said nothing. But he walked around and indicated that she should remove herself to the back. He jumped up and took the reins.

“Bessie is a gentle mare,” Rees said, “with a soft mouth.” Caldwell threw him an annoyed look and responded by slapping the reins down upon the horse’s withers. She jumped forward and they careened west on Church Street. Rees clutched at the wagon side with his good hand. “Slow down, man,” he cried. The constable did not reply and kept Bessie at a rapid trot the entire distance to the Bowditch property. By the time they reached the front door, Bessie’s muzzle was flecked with foam.

A familiar buggy and horse were already there, pulled to one side, but Rees didn’t have time to examine them. Marsh came out to the porch. “Mrs. Bowditch has been looking out for you for at least an hour.”

“We are here now,” he said, hearing the reproof in Marsh’s voice. He climbed down very carefully. Lydia followed, and Marsh looked at her in surprise. He glanced at Rees with surmise.

“She drove him into town,” Caldwell said. “He had to protect his wound, the wound your young master inflicted upon him.”

“Of course,” Marsh said with a bow.

“Please see that Bessie is cooled down and watered,” Rees asked. “The constable pushed her hard.” Rees detected a scornful gleam in Marsh’s dark eyes before he hid his expression with another bow.

“Certainly. Mrs. Bowditch and Master Richard are waiting for you in the office,” he said.

“Nate let him get away with thinking he’s a white man’s equal.” Caldwell said when he offered to assist Lydia to the ground. Refusing his hand, she jumped down. “You’ve got to keep his kind in their places.”

“From the stories I’ve heard,” Rees said, not bothering to disguise his disgust, “Nate handed off his responsibilities to Marsh. Without him, this farm would be neither productive nor economical.”

“And that was his mistake,” Caldwell retorted.

Lydia looked at Rees and shook her head in warning. So he did not reply, although several arguments trembled upon his tongue. They entered the house in silence, Lydia promptly disappearing to the kitchen.

“They’re waiting in Master Nate’s office,” Marsh said, assuming a subservience that was foreign to the man Rees knew. He couldn’t bear to watch.

They walked the few steps toward the office, and Rees held up his hand for silence. He could hear the subdued murmur of Molly Bowditch’s voice and paused by the door to listen.