Thoreau at Devil's Perch (18 page)

The two women glared at each other. They were of equal height but not of equal power, for Mrs. Scudder won out. Dora slunk back to her chair without another word, not so fierce after all.

“Now, gentlemen, I request you very kindly to leave,” Mrs. Scudder told us in a mannerly tone.

“As soon as we ask you a few more questions,” Henry said.

“Get out
now!
” she shrieked, her veneer of politeness worn thin. “Else I'll call the day patrolman and have you arrested for lewd and unlawful behavior. I pay him enough that he will be most happy to oblige me.”

“Your threat does not persuade me to leave,” Henry told her, “but your contempt for truthfulness does. I would not believe another word that slithered out of your lips. Let us depart from this place, Adam.”

“Allow me to talk to Mrs. Scudder first,” I said. Both she and Henry looked rather surprised for I had not said much (or indeed anything) till now. I had seen no reason to interfere with Henry's inquiry and had been occupied with my own observations. “I would like to discuss the health of your workers with you, madam.”

“Now why would you want to do that if you ain't here to use them?”

“Because I'm a doctor, and I believe they have land scurvy. That's why they are so tired and bleak. No doubt their joints ache and they suffer from muscular and lumbar pains.”

“Or they are just lazy.”

“Scurvy would cause those purple blotches upon their limbs,” I added.

“Is that so?” Mrs. Scudder showed me more interest. “Well, those damn spots are
most
unattractive. A few gentlemen callers have remarked upon them. I suppose you are going to suggest giving my girls a good bleeding to cure 'em, doctor. How much do you charge for your services?”

“No bloodletting is necessary,” I said, although I know doctors who still swear by this misconceived treatment for scurvy. “The ailment is cured most speedily with wholesome victuals. Just feed them plenty of vegetables and fruits.”

“Do you take me for a wealthy woman, sir?” Mrs. Scudder said. “I can barely afford to feed 'em bread and beer.”

“You do not suffer from the disease yourself,” I pointed out. “Feed them what you eat.”

She waved off that suggestion.

“It will be good for your business,” I said to persuade her. “They will look and feel better. I beg you to follow my advice, madam. I am most concerned for the poor child who let us in. She has land scurvy to a severe degree.”

Mrs. Scudder raised her double chin and stated most proudly, “I'll have you know that I do not deal in child prostitution, doctor.”

“I should hope not. I am only suggesting you feed the girl better.”

“But I just got through telling you I got no use for her except as a slavey. No point in making her look more presentable.”

Gave up on the woman. She had the soul of a weasel. Henry and I left the house and came upon the little girl outside, scrubbing the step-stone. She gave us a timid smile, and I observed that her gums were swollen and bleeding. I told her I was a doctor and asked her to stick out her tongue. She did so with a giggle. Her tongue was livid and had a black fungus upon it. I took a closer look at the sores on her stick-like legs. They could become infected and vulnerable to gangrene if they did not heal. And heal they would not without proper diet. I gave the lass a few coins and enjoined her to buy some lemons or oranges. She promised me she would, but I am quite sure she bought sweets instead. She is, after all, just a child.

As Henry and I walked away we heard the sharp tick of high heels behind us. We turned to see Dora the Dagger Girl coming toward us, wrapped in a long shawl.

“Wait!” she said. The short walk had made her breathless, and she gasped a few times before speaking further. “I will tell you all I know and to hell with Scudder. If that old blowze darst try to kick me out of her house, I will kick her in her fat ass.”

“What is it you know?” Henry asked her.

“Badger killed Caleb for sure.”

“Did he admit this to you?”

“No, but I allus feared it. Last I seen the boy was about a fortnight ago, when he left to give Badger a message from that bitch hopper Effie. When Caleb didn't come back with an answer, Effie took off for parts unknown. She musta figured it had all gone wrong.”

“What had gone wrong?” Henry said.

“Her scheme to get money outta Badger. She told me he left behind something in her room that she reckoned he would pay plenty to get back. I warned her he was too vicious to play with, but she had him pegged for a drunken gump.”

“What did Badger leave behind?”

“Don't know. And neither did Effie.”

“Then why did she think Badger valued it?”

“Well, it musta been worth something. Else why was Badger carrying it in a leather satchel with a big brass lock?”

“Did the satchel have any distinctive markings?”

“It had some letters stamped on it. And it looked mighty shabby.”

“What did the letters spell out?”

She suddenly looked abashed. “I can't recall.”

Henry studied her a moment. “Can you read, Dora?”

“No! And I ain't proud of it neither.”

“Nor should you be ashamed of it,” Henry said gently.

“I know my numbers well enough,” she said, her braggadocio returning. “And I recall the number three on the satchel.”

Henry nodded. “What did Effie do with satchel?”

“She hid it of course. She sent Caleb to tell Badger that she was keeping it safe for him and would give it back for a price.”

“Do you know where she sent Caleb?”

“Some hick town called Plumford. Badger was allus bragging about living in a fine house there and working for a fine military gentleman. So Caleb took the cars there.”

“And that was the last you saw of him?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “But we sure as hell saw Badger soon enough. He busted into the house screaming for Effie the very next day, but she had already lit out. So he turns his anger on Hag Scudder, bellowing about wanting his satchel back. She don't know nothin' about it and starts shaking and quaking so bad I near laughed out loud. But it weren't so funny when he pulled a big knife outta his boot and threatened her with it. I don't much like Scudder, but I couldn't just stand by and see her get kilt. So I told Badger where his goddam satchel was. I'm the only one who knew Effie hid it under the floorboards 'neath her bed. Once Badger got it back and saw that the lock weren't tampered with, he settled down some. I guess he figured he couldn't kill us all like he done poor Caleb, so he just made us swear never to speak of the bag to anyone.” She took a breath. “That's all I know. Now you tell me how Badger done in Caleb.”

Henry explained where we had found Caleb's body and how we thought he had been pushed over the cliff after being struck from behind with a blow to the head.

“That is just like Badger to whack a man from behind,” she said. “He ain't worth a pinch of shit. And Caleb was worth his weight in gold. Never mind he was a darky. He was a fine feller all the same. How he used to make us all hoot with his jokes and antics. Such a merry boy. He was but eighteen, you know. Oh, I cannot believe that he is dead!” She covered her face with her hands for a moment, but when she lowered them her eyes were dry and her expression cold. “Damn Badger to hell. I should stick him with my dagger and send him there myself.”

“If you do, you will hang for it,” Henry told her. “And that would be unjust, for he is the one who should hang for Caleb's murder.”

“Oh, I would very much like to see Badger dance a horn pipe in the air,” she said.

“If we collect enough evidence against him, we can bring him to trial,” Henry said. “Will you testify?”

She gave out a bitter laugh. “Who would believe a whore?”

“I do,” Henry said.

“But how many other men think like you?”

“I would no more wish them to think like me than I would wish to think like them. We need only to think for ourselves to do the right thing. It is the individual conscience that matters,” Henry told her. He is by nature incapable of talking down (or up for that matter) to anyone.

If Dora understood the meaning of his words, she did not show it. I handed her some coins and told her to buy vegetables and fruit for herself and the others, taking care that the little girl got her full share. She promised me she would, but might have kept the money for herself. Or the child may be sucking on a juicy orange as I write this. That is what I hope, at any rate.

Henry and I did not tarry further in the Black Sea district, for we had fished from it all the information we could.

“It seems all we have proven for our trouble is that Badger was in Boston at the time of Peck's death,” I stated glumly as we made our way back to the station. “This does not help Trump in the least.”

“There are other suspects to consider,” Henry said. “Such as the guests who were staying at Peck's house the night he was murdered. Do you know much about them?”

“Next to nothing. I had only a brief conversation with Lieutenant Finch and barely exchanged a word with the little banker or his wife. And Justice Phyfe saw no need to interrogate them, so convinced was he that Trump had murdered Peck.” I stopped in my tracks. “I suggest we remain in town to interrogate them ourselves, Henry. I have lodgings in a house on Chestnut Street and invite you to be my guest there. My landlord and his family are spending the month at Cape Ann and have taken the maid along with them, but I am sure we can manage to fend for ourselves.”

“What about Trump?”

“This
is
about him,” I replied a bit impatiently. “The only way to prevent him from being sentenced to hang is to discover who really killed Peck.”

“Yes, of course,” Henry said. “But do not forget that Trump is in more immediate danger, Adam. He could be hanged without so much as a trial if he remains vulnerable to foes like Badger. I must go back to Concord without delay and enlist the aid of my friends to get him removed to a safer jail.”

“Of course. Do what you can to help Trump in Concord. I will remain in town and interview Vail and Finch.”

“The soldier seems a more likely suspect than the banker,” Henry said. “I say this not because I think a banker would be too principled to commit murder. Indeed, I wager a soldier has a higher sense of honor than one who traffics in money. But soldiers sometime kill for honor, do they not? Take care, Adam. Lieutenant Finch could be dangerous.”

Henry can act too much the big brother at times, but I promised I would keep up my guard. After assuring me he would inform Julia that I was staying the night in Boston, Henry continued on his way to the terminal, and I headed toward the Provident Bank on Tremont Street, where I recalled Mr. Vail had stated he was employed when he testified. Upon arriving at the bank I was informed Mr. Vail had left for the day. It was against bank policy to give out his home address, so I had little choice but to wait until the morrow to interview him at his office. I did not know where Lt. Finch resided either. My hope was that Mr. Vail might.

Rather than waste what little remained of the afternoon, I decided to go to my own office. Although Dr. Quincy had given me leave to stay in Plumford until my grandfather was fully recovered, he received me coolly. My extended absence as his assistant has clearly displeased him even though this is a slow time for the practice. Our patients, mostly ladies of the privileged class, have by and large left the city for the season. I confess I do not miss doctoring them. Their physical ailments are usually minor, brought on by assiduous dieting, tight lacing, lack of exercise, and genteel indolence. Or by sheer silliness. They swig vinegar and nibble chalk to give themselves a fashionable pallor, then come to us with stomach complaints. Dr. Quincy prescribes laudanum and morphine far too often in my opinion, and I have told him so. And he has told me that my simple prescription of robust walks in the fresh air demeans our profession. In truth, we were not getting on well before I left for Plumford.

We got on well enough today, however. That another doctor was present during our brief meeting no doubt fostered our congeniality. Upon meeting Dr. Eames, I immediately felt at ease with him. He has an infectious amiability, although I suppose infectious is a poor choice of words when referring to a doctor who specializes in venereal disease. When Dr. Eames learned that I hailed from Plumford, he spontaneously mentioned that he had recently advised a patient from that very town. He said no more than that and might have felt he had said too much as it was. His specialty requires the utmost discretion. Hence I did not inquire further, assuming that it was Peck who consulted with him. Did not blame Peck for seeking a second opinion, for mine had been dire indeed.

As I record this journal entry I can hear the city sounds of rattling carriage wheels, rumbling omnibuses, and shrill voices coming through my open window and miss the peaceful silence of Plumford at nightfall. Mostly, though, I miss Julia. Shall I write her a letter? It would be the next best thing to conversing with her. We have conversed very little since we kissed and perhaps, in this letter, I can set things right between us again.Yes, I shall write to her.

 

P
oor dear Molly Munger. Henceforth I shall have only kind thoughts concerning her. But as I marched toward her home this afternoon, my thoughts were anything but kind. And little wonder, for I had not seen hide nor hair of her for a week. Her father's excuse that she was indisposed with some vague ailment had worn mighty thin, and I needed to know for certain if Miss Molly had any intention of returning to work. I sorely hoped she would, for domestic helpers are hard to come by in Plumford. Most village girls prefer to work at the mills. Truth be told, so would I. And if I cannot earn my way with my art, I may well end up standing afore a loom instead of an easel.

Of course, if I so desired it, Grandfather would happily support me here in Plumford and give me leave to paint to my heart's content. But I would
not
be content merely dabbling at art whilst caring for an elderly gentleman, no matter how dear he be to me. I must strike out on my own in order to make a name for myself in my field. If I were a man that would be perfectly understandable to Grandfather, and I am sure he would encourage my ambitions,just as he encouraged his son to seek his fortune at sea and his grandson to become a doctor. But he encourages me, a mere woman, to stay by his hearth and close to his heart, where I will be safe if not satisfied.

Yet Molly was not safe in Plumford, was she? Her strong father and upright mother could not protect her from the evil she encountered right here. I pray her life is not ruined because of it. She is not yet seventeen!

As I approached the Munger house I could hear ferocious blows and pounding coming from Mr. Munger's butchery alongside it. Perchance this noise prevented Mrs. Munger from hearing my knocks upon her front door, but I do not think so. I am quite sure I glimpsed her white-capped head peeking through a downstairs window that offered a good view of me standing on the porch. I went around back where I saw a few sheep contentedly grazing in a field by the river. I knocked on the back door, and this time Mrs. Munger answered.

“Miss Bell, what a surprise,” said she without a trace of a smile.

“I have come to inquire about Molly.”

“Have you now?” Rather than move her large frame aside so that I could enter, she remained rigid in the doorway, arms akimbo.

“How is she faring, Mrs. Munger?”

“Molly?”

“Yes. Is she feeling any better?”

“Any better than what, pray?”

I did pray. For patience. “Better than Thursday last when your husband came to tell me she was ill, Mrs. Munger. My concern for Molly grows with each passing day she does not come back to work.”

“Why, our Molly is not at all sick. I reckon Mr. Munger just didn't want to come out and tell you the truth, Miss Bell. Molly has up and quit you. She don't care to work at the doc's no more.”

“Oh! And when was I to be informed of this?”

“Ain't you being informed of it now?”

I felt my cheeks burn with indignation. “I would like to discuss this with Molly herself if I may, Mrs. Munger.”

She did not budge from the doorway. “My daughter has gone to work for my aunt in Ipswich. Good Day, Miss Bell.”

I did not budge either. “Molly could not have gone quite yet, for I spied her looking out an upstairs window as I came up the path,” I declared. In truth I had only spied Mrs. Munger's visage in a window, but I sensed she was lying and so gave her tit for tat.

We eyeballed each other in silence, neither blinking, until tears suddenly flooded Mrs. Munger's eyes. She covered her face with her apron and sobbed.

“Please tell me what is troubling you so, Mrs. Munger. Perhaps I can be of help.”

She dropped her apron and considered me. “You might help at that. Molly regards you highly.”

'Twas news to me that she did. During our short acquaintanceship, I have received little enough respect from the girl but more than a good share of back talk. Nevertheless, I followed Mrs. Munger up the narrow staircase and into a small, neat bed chamber. Molly was lying atop the covers staring up at the ceiling. She was barefoot and dressed in a muslin nightgown, so she did not seem to have any immediate intention of going out. Yet a bright pink bonnet adorned her head. She stared at me blankly but did not move a muscle. She seemed to be waiting for me to speak first, and so I did.

“What a pretty bonnet, Molly. May I ask why you are wearing it in bed?”

Mrs. Munger sighed and said, “She has not taken the fool thing off for a good three days.”

Without uttering a word, Molly turned away to face the wall, giving me the back of her bonnet to regard. Regard it I did, for it looked mighty familiar, right down to the marabou feather trimming. Why, it could have been the very bonnet I had seen on the empty little head of the banker's wife! Had she given it to Molly before she left town? That did not seem likely. Mrs. Vail had made it clear to me that she prized her bonnet too highly to ever part with it. Besides, she did not even know Molly. Perchance she'd left her bonnet behind accidentally and Molly had come upon it somehow. Or could it be that the bonnet Molly was wearing was not Mrs. Vail's after all, but her very own? How could she have acquired it? Mrs. Vail told me that a “dear friend” had ordered her bonnet from an exclusive Boston milliner. Could Molly have the same dear friend? Someone with a penchant for women decked out in pink bonnets? I recalled the sly smile I had seen Capt. Peck give Mrs. Vail. Could it be possible . . . ?

“Were you well acquainted with Captain Peck, Molly?” I ventured to ask.

After a long moment of silence, I saw the marabou plume on Molly's hat bob up and down as she nodded yes.

“He seduced my girl with that blasphemous bonnet,” Mrs. Munger said, confirming my suspicions.

“His murder must have been a great shock to her. Is that why she has taken to bed?”

“She took to bed from the shock of what he told her a few days before he died,” Mrs. Munger said. “And she miscarried because of it too.”

“Good Lord! She was with child?”

“The fetus had not yet stirred when she lost it, and she is as good as recovered from the ordeal.”

“Are you sure she is going to be all right, Mrs. Munger?”

“Yes, I know a good deal about birthing. But I know
nothing
about . . .” She clapped her mouth shut and turned her eyes from me.

I waited for her to continue, and when she did not, I sat myself on the edge of the bed and patted Molly's back. “I am very sorry,” I told her. “I know this is a mighty bleak time for you. Nevertheless, you have your whole life ahead of you. A full, happy life, I am sure, for you still have your health and—”

“What if she don't?” Mrs. Munger bawled. “What if she caught the pox from that villain? He told her he had it for sure.”

I was stunned silent by Peck's vileness but only for a moment. “I will send Dr. Adam to examine Molly as soon as he returns from Boston.”

She looked relieved yet cautious. “No one but you and Doc Adam must know about this.”

“What about Molly's father?”

“Oh, Ira knows.” Mrs. Munger sank down on the bed beside me. “I wish he didn't, but it couldn't be helped. He was home when Molly miscarried, just back from playing town ball. In her upset state, she confessed all to him, even that she might have caught the pox from Peck. He listened real quiet and did not so much as raise his voice, much less his hand, to our daughter. He just went out to the butchery and stayed there all night. He has not spoken a word of it since.”

“And neither shall I speak a word of this to anyone but my cousin,” I assured Mrs. Munger. “This whole affair will be as dead and buried as Peck.”

“I pray that be so. But what if Molly got the pox from him? Do you know what the signs are, Miss Bell?”

“Like most women, I have been kept in the dark about such things. But Dr. Adam will know. And I am sure he can prescribe remedies if she did. She is young and resilient. In time she will forget this sad episode in her life.”

“I do not want to forget!” Molly sat up and stared at me with tear-glazed eyes. “That's why I will always wear this bonnet.”

“To remember the heartless man who gave it to you?”

“No, to repent that I gave myself to such a man as that.” She turned to her mother. “Bury me in this bonnet, Ma. That is my final wish.”

This morbid directive caused Mrs. Munger to start sobbing again. I sat quietly on the bed and contemplated what Molly had said. Her belief that the bonnet was a symbol of her disgrace and that she should wear it in shame forevermore—or even for another minute!—seemed absurd to me.

“Allow me, dear,” I said, and before she could lift a hand to prevent me I yanked the hateful thing off her head.

I tossed it to the floor and trampled upon it till it was flattened. I was breathing rather hard when I was done. I looked at Molly. She looked back at me with an expression of pure relief.

Mrs. Munger gingerly picked up the destroyed bonnet by a frayed ribbon, as one would pick up a rat by its tail. “I will burn it,” she said.

Molly insisted on watching it burn and went downstairs with us. Her mother opened the oven door of the cookstove, removed the johnnycake baking on a tin, and added some wood sticks to spruce up the fire. She tossed the bonnet onto the flames, and we all watched it blacken and shrivel to nothing. Then we ate the johnnycake and drank some tea. I was pleased to see that Molly's appetite was as keen as ever.

I left the house shortly thereafter and saw Ira Munger walking toward the grazing sheep. He was wearing a leather apron stained black with blood and grease. I waved to him. He solemnly nodded back to me, then gripped one of the sheep by the nape of the neck and began pulling it toward the butchery. It did not so much as let out a single bleat of protest, for it did not know its fate. Alas, I did. I looked away and hurried home.

There I impatiently awaited Adam's return from Boston, anxious to tell him about Molly. When I heard the stage pull up in front of the house I hurried out, expecting Adam to be on it. He was not, and the note the driver handed me was not from him, but from Henry Thoreau, who had dispatched the driver to deliver it to me from the Concord station. Scrawled in pencil on a sheet torn from his notebook, Henry's terse message informed me that Adam would be spending the night in the city. How could Henry know this? Had he taken the cars to Boston with Adam this morning? If so, why had Henry returned without him? What is keeping Adam in the city tonight? And what made him decide to go there in the first place?

So many questions! And the biggest one of all is this: Will Adam ever confide in me again? How paradoxical it is that our moment of intimacy has rendered us strangers. I long to be his closest friend again, his trusted companion and fellow traveler through life. But now that we are adults this can no longer be possible unless . . . No! We
cannot
marry!