Louisa and the Country Bachelor : A Louisa May Alcott Mystery (9781101547564) (11 page)

Reluctantly I let the flap drop and backed out of it on my knees, a strong sense of trespass making my cheeks feel hot.

I walked around the tent, which was solidly anchored some twenty yards from the edge of the cliff, where a thicket of bushes and trees obscured the view. Still, it did not seem possible that Ernst Nooteboom could fall (or be pushed?) from there and not have that fall be witnessed by Mr. Hampton, if Mr. Hampton were in his camp that morning.

Had he been? His mother had said he was out of town.

I paced, hands behind my back, studying the ground and finding nothing unexpected, only footprints going back and forth from tent to campfire, footprints coming and going from the path that led to this secluded place. There were no signs of violence, nothing on which my imagination could concentrate or focus. If only I knew what to look for!

I sat under an ancient oak, enjoying its filtered light, the cool feel of the air that swirled under its thick canopy of leaves. My eyes closed of their own accord.

A hand clamped roughly onto my shoulder and pulled me to my feet.

“What are you doing here, Miss Alcott?” Clarence Hampton, his face just inches from mine, was furious. His green eyes glinted dangerously. He shook me with such vigor that my head snapped back and his fingers tore into my arms.

For a moment I felt true fear. If I screamed I would be heard by nobody. Only the chattering squirrels and chirping birds were close enough to heed my cries. Then common sense prevailed, and surfacing up came the courage and outrage required for self-preservation.

“Mr. Hampton, unhand me,” I said calmly. And to make my point, I brought up both my arms at once and broke his hold on me. It was a street trick I had learned from a Boston urchin who had tried to pinch my reticule. (Instead, the child let me buy him a raisin bun and sugar water in exchange for conversation and a few demonstrations of his singular talents.)

Mr. Hampton and I stood, separated only by inches, glaring and trembling, he in anger and I in outrage. A gentleman does not put his hands on a lady in that manner. And then, of course, it occurred to me: Clarence Hampton was not a gentleman. He dressed well and spoke well, but those are easily acquired arts. His origins were elsewhere. His mother, Ida Tupper, was evidence, for she was no lady.

He was the first to drop his eyes, finding as an excuse the need to straighten his hat, which had been knocked askew. Oh, reader, how deep is the heart! I felt pity for him!

“Forgive me,” he said with a complete lack of repentance. “You took me by surprise. It is not wise for a woman to be here alone. This can be a dangerous place.”

“So I have heard.” I straightened my own tilted cap.

He reached up and tucked a lock of loosened hair back under it. “I rather prefer this morning attire to your afternoon tea frock,” he said gently. “But tell me, Miss Louisa, what are you doing here?” He carried a string of trout over his shoulder, and his trousers were damp at the ankles. He had been fishing, not taking the barge to Charleston. I made a note to pay little attention to anything Mrs. Tupper said.

There was no response I could make that would not aggravate the situation. If I lied, he would see it was a lie. If I admitted to a curiosity about the matter of Ernst Nooteboom's death so close to his campsite, that would hardly soothe the situation. So I said only, “Sorry to have intruded.” I walked away, feeling his eyes bore into my back. It was difficult to walk slowly and calmly, rather than break into a run.

“Miss Louisa!” he called, his voice having resumed its cynical tones. “Miss Louisa, I really mean you no harm. But you would be safer to avoid this place.”

It could have been a well-meant warning about the dangers of trekking alone so far from town. It could have been a threat.

 

 

THAT SECOND ENCOUNTER with Ida Tupper's son only increased my curiosity about her household, and I decided it was time to pay a call on her brother, the invalid. Courtesy required it of me, after all. We were neighbors.

“Let me guess,” said Sylvia, when I asked her to accompany me that afternoon. “To meet Mrs. Tupper's brother.”

“Excellent. And how do you come to that knowledge?”

Sylvia grinned. “Because it is the place I least wish to visit.”

The Tupper house, immediately next door to our cottage, was whitewashed, with a huge front porch and stained-glass windows. It was large, very large, I thought, for a family of four: Ida, Jonah, and her son and brother, especially considering that the son and husband seemed rarely at home. Ida, judging from her stylish afternoon gowns, exotically feathered hats, and habit of name-dropping (“I had tea with Mrs. Bellows, my dear, such an old sweetie. She has promised to introduce me to the governor, when next he is in Walpole!”), had great expectations.

I pulled the doorbell. It took a very long time for the housekeeper to answer. She was a young girl—very young for the position, it seemed to me, and somewhat simple of mind. Abba would not have approved of such an arrangement; the child still belonged with her mother.

“Yes, miss?” she said with a curtsy, holding the door only partly open and gazing up at me with huge eyes. “The missus ain't at home.”

“Is Mr. . . .” I faltered. “I am here to see Ida Tupper's brother,” I said, realizing I did not know his name.

“ 'Cor,” cooed the little housekeeper, making her eyes even larger. “No one comes to see 'im!”

“Well, it would seem we are here to rectify that oversight. Announce us, please, my dear. And, miss, what is his name?”

I thought her brown eyes would fall out, so large had they become. “Mr. Wattles, miss. Mr. Jonathon Wattles. Wait here.”

With much turning and looking over her shoulder, the little housekeeper made her slow way down the long hall and disappeared through a door at the end of it. I heard mumbling and exclamations; a thud that indicated a piece of furniture had been knocked into or even turned over, much rustling of paper and scraping of chairs on floors.

A full ten minutes later the child housekeeper came back out and signaled that we were to come down the hall and enter. She curtsied again and closed the door after we had entered that room.

It smelled as all invalids' rooms smell, of lavender and mint compresses and the more stringent scent of a body that has not had enough fresh air and sunshine. The curtains were even more tightly drawn than in the waking room at Mrs. Roder's boardinghouse. I could barely see. When my eyes adjusted I made out, in the darkest corner, a chaise and a figure on it, wrapped in blankets despite the warmth of the afternoon.

“Forgive the dreary atmosphere,” said an old man's quavering voice, “but the light hurts my eyes.” He coughed, and a spasm seemed to shake the breath out of him. “I am afraid a mistake has been made. My nephew, Mr. Hampton, is not at home, nor is his mother. Annie should have told you.”

“I have come to make your acquaintance, sir,” I said. “I have the house opposite and wanted to make myself known to you, as your new neighbor.”

“How kind!” He beamed. “I never have company. Come sit by me, my dear. You are my new neighbor? Ida has mentioned you.”

“I hope my visit does not inconvenience you. Yes, I am Miss Louisa Alcott of Boston, visiting for the summer with Mr. Benjamin Willis and his family. This is my good friend Sylvia Shattuck.” I approached and sat on a chair opposite. It was an old-fashioned ladder-back chair such as the kind used in waiting rooms and offices, designed not for comfort but to keep visits short.

“No inconvenience at all,” he said, and another cough shook his body. He was silver-haired and elderly, with a beautifully groomed white beard flowing over his chest. Ida's mother must have borne sister and brother with many years between them, but that was not uncommon.

“Shall I ring for tea?” the gentleman asked.

“Don't bother. I see you are trying to rest. I know you have recently returned from a journey to Boston, and must be greatly fatigued. But I brought a gift, since we are neighbors.” I smiled, and my smile was returned, though his was a tight, close-lipped smile.

“Rhubarb preserves.” He accepted the jar with reluctance. “Generous of you, very generous. My digestion does not allow such delicacies, but I'm sure Ida will enjoy it on her evening toast. Be a dear and put it on the table there. I will give it to her when she returns.” He coughed. “Don't be afraid, child. Come closer,” he said to Sylvia, who had hung back. Sylvia took two steps closer.

“Do you play?” I asked, spying a large cabinet piano in the corner.

His laugh had a dreary ring to it. “I used to. Now my hands are useless.” He brought one out briefly from under the blanket and it had a clawlike quality to it. “Rheumatism.” He sighed.

“I am sorry. It must pain you.”

“Especially when it rains. But I must not complain. I have my sister. She plays for me, and reads to me until her voice gives out.” His smile was resigned. “My nephew attempts to amuse me with his fossils.”

“You must happily anticipate Mr. Jonah Tupper's return, to provide you with companionship,” I said.

“I must,” he agreed with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm. He seemed disinclined to pursue a conversation. Many invalids, when left alone too often, lose the art of conversation. He yawned.

I stood. “Well, I'll not tire you further. Good day, Mr. Wattles.”

“Good day, my dear. Call anytime.” His voice was friendly, but I doubted his sincerity. He seemed content with his tightly closed curtains, that dark, airless room, and I wondered how gay Ida Tupper suffered through her long evenings at home. How eager she must be for the return of her young husband, even if her brother was not.

 

 

I VENTURED TO ask Mrs. Tupper about her husband the next afternoon, when she arrived for another knitting lesson with Abba.

Ida put down her knitting needles and brought a piece of paper out of her reticule. She quickly returned the paper before I could get a look at it, as if it were too precious to give into other hands.

“Yes, I have had a message from my precious Jonah,” she said happily. “Mr. Tupper is somewhere in Michigan, and has taken several large orders for church bells. We shall be able to purchase a new carriage next spring.”

“Have you need of a carrriage? Walpole seems a very walkable place,” Abba said.

“Oh, yes,” said Ida Tupper. “No lady goes without a carriage. Our position will require it, and Jonah is so very good at his work of selling bells. When I write to him I always say, ‘Dearest Jonah, when you enter the Pearly Gates, as you are certain to do, virtuous as you are, you will hear your own bells ringing.' ” Ida Tupper picked up her knitting needles and beamed, pleased with her witticism.

“If you know only that he is somewhere in Michigan, how do you get such messages delivered?” I couldn't help but ask. Really, even the simplest of minds must have a hint of logic to it. Her smile evaporated.

“Why, Clarence mails the correspondence and keeps track of such things,” said that trusting mother, frowning with confusion. “I will ask him. But now it is time for my walk.” She rose with a self-conscious smoothing of her pink taffeta skirts. “We musn't turn into an invalid like my brother, Mr. Wattles. Do you wish to take the air, Benjamin?”

Cousin Eliza's eyebrows shot up. She was also in the kitchen, helping Anna put up a patch of dilly beans, and Benjamin was there as well, for he had finally found a volume of Confucius in his library and had brought it over for Father.

Uncle Benjamin rose, gave me a hug, and then picked up his cane. “Got to keep the old legs limber,” he said. “Will your brother be joining us, Mrs. Tupper? The air would do him good.”

“Perhaps we should send Louisa over to minister to him,” suggested Eliza.

“I think not,” Mrs. Tupper said quickly. “He needs peace and quiet. The slightest sound gives him torment.”

“Well,” said Uncle Benjamin, and he gave his arm to Mrs. Tupper.

“Have a nice walk,” I said.

When she looked back at me, her smile was triumphant.

“I do not like this situation,” said Eliza after they had left. She shook her head. “Father out walking with Mrs. Tupper.”

“There is no real situation,” said Abba in her consoling “there, there” voice. “All men like a bit of attention.”

“I think tomorrow I will ask Uncle Benjamin to walk with me,” I said. “I have had little opportunity to speak with him this summer. I had forgotten how busy life in the country can be.”

Eliza shot me a grateful glance.

 

 

ABBA COOKED US a fish chowder that night. “Mr. Hampton sent over the trout,” she said. “Wasn't that thoughtful?”

Very. I couldn't help but wonder if he was bribing me into silence, not to reveal our confrontation in the forest. Well, I wouldn't—not for him but because it would worry Abba.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NEXT DAY was mild and dry—perfect walking weather, perfect weather for taking aside a beloved elderly uncle and having a heart-to-heart. He had warned me to steer clear of Mr. Hampton; now I must try respectfully to warn him of the possible misinterpretations that could be placed upon his friendship with Ida Tupper.

We began with talk of other matters, and I asked him if he knew aught of Dr. Peterson Burroughs, for that aged medical examiner continued to intrigue me.

“He's going to make a bid on Lilli's land, when she auctions it off,” said Benjamin, tapping his walking stick. He carried the Egyptian ebony with the silver Hathor handle. We were walking by the river, scouting for the deep pools where the trout liked to swirl and jump. I wondered at which of these places Mr. Hampton had been fishing the day before.