No Rest for the Dove (26 page)

Leaving town, the coachman drove down Orange onto the narrow Neck, where they were surrounded by stinking mud flats—as luck would have it, they crossed over at low tide. Once past the old fortifications and the town sentries, the coach continued west toward Roxbury. There, it turned north, soon moving over Great Bridge and the Charles below; minutes later, they saw a church steeple and then the golden cupola of the Cambridge County courthouse, near Harvard College.

Longfellow remembered as he rode that Judge Trowbridge had been both troubled and intrigued by what they had told him on the previous afternoon. He had examined the witnesses and in the end did, indeed, sign warrants for the arrest of Thomas Pomeroy and Don Arturo Alva. Trowbridge had also been given a brief statement written by Joseph Warren, who promised to testify more fully when he answered in person. Although the judge raised his curling brows at the information that the body in question had been buried in a churchyard in Dorchester, a hint from Longfellow that it might carry the contagion of fever was enough to settle the matter. Dr. Warren was well respected in his profession, Trowbridge had maintained with a squint, and was a man whose medical observations, at least, could be safely taken.

Today promised developments of considerable interest, for the sheriff had been ordered to send a summons to the farmer Caleb Knox in Bracebridge, as well as one to Jonathan Pratt. Longfellow supposed both would bring their spouses.

They finally arrived at the courthouse to find the Pratts, the Knoxes, and Reverend Rowe all waiting in the entry, while another case was considered in the large room on the first floor. In the weighty atmosphere, few
words passed between them. Fortunately for the nerves of all, onlookers and participants soon spilled out, and those newly arrived from Boston and Bracebridge made their way inside.

When they had taken places at the front, Mrs. Willett lost herself in childhood memories, thinking back to the several times the Howard family had come to view suits between their neighbors. Though the raised platform before her held only empty chairs, she knew twelve men would return to hear the second or perhaps the third case of a long day. A small box nearby would see a series of witnesses. Farther along, in armed chairs, judges would sit with a high bench before them. Between bench and spectators stood a rectangular table topped with baize, set with ink pots and quills; there, lawyers acting in a case, dressed in robes, generally sat by with others in plain clothing, who came to observe and to learn. At the moment, two such young men bent over pages of notes with their satchels at their sides, waiting.

The jury soon returned from its brief withdrawing, and many more spectators crowded in through the rear door. At last, through a doorway behind the judges’ chairs came Justice Trowbridge, robed in black and bewigged, followed by a smaller man in street attire. Each settled himself. Then, at the clerk’s call for silence, Trowbridge looked with a scrutinizing eye over the party surrounding Richard Longfellow, before nodding to the jury and beginning new business.

“This, ladies and gentlemen,” he started, addressing the room in a well-tempered voice, “will be a Coroner’s Inquest. It is not yet a trial. The court’s duty today is to hear evidence, and to draw conclusions to explain a man’s questionable death—which may or may not have been an accident. At the same time we will look into another
matter, for it now appears likely that the death of one Sesto Alva may be related to an attempt on the life of Signor Gian Carlo Lahte—the latter occurrence surely no accident, but a deliberate felony. For this, I have issued two warrants, though the individuals named are presumed to have fled.”

Several in the audience were heard to whisper and a few crept away, no doubt to alert others to what promised to be an unusual and entertaining story.

“Some may ask why I am presiding here today,” Trowbridge continued soberly, “for though I am a former barrister, I have been elevated in recent years to serve the colony in a somewhat greater capacity. But it is as a Justice of the Peace for Middlesex County that I have heard evidence brought before me in recent days … evidence concerning strangers to these shores, whose ways are not our own. In their own land, two at least claim wealth and privilege—and, one supposes, a code of honor, which may also be somewhat different from ours. At any rate, Mr. Alden, a coroner of the county, has agreed that we might work together to illuminate the sequence of events involving these gentlemen, and others. It will then be the duty of the jury,” he continued, turning to the twelve men who listened attentively, “to decide whether a Grand Jury of the Superior Court will hear the case, and consider an indictment. While a Coroner’s Inquest may seem a less formal setting than a trial, I remind you that oaths which may be given here are not only sacred, but are also legally binding. Are there no acting attorneys present?” the judge asked, looking again to see for himself. “Fine. Though it is allowed, it is not required. There will be time for that later, if anyone here should recognize a need to retain counsel … for whatever reason.”

Trowbridge and the coroner put their heads together briefly, after which the judge carried the case forward.

“As I see that all who have been summoned as witnesses are present, we will begin by following the events in the order in which they occurred. First, we will learn of the last days of the deceased, Signor Sesto Alva, who came to Boston from the city of Milan in Italy. Captain Edmund Montagu will enlighten us on this, and other matters. Captain?”

Edmund Montagu left his wife’s side to enter the witness box. After raising his hand and giving his oath, he began.

“Your honor, it is known that Sesto Alva traveled to Boston as the protector of his cousin’s daughter, a young woman now called Elena Lahte.”

“I see,” said the judge, “that Signora Lahte is here, and will instruct the jury that she was formerly known as Elena Alva. She is the daughter of Don Arturo Alva, of Milan. This lady came to be reunited with her husband, Signor Gian Carlo Lahte, supposing him to be here. It should also be noted that we have cause to believe Signora Lahte’s father followed his daughter, surely in the hope of taking her back to his own home … for reasons I do not think it necessary to go into.”

Captain Montagu went on to speak of the successful search that had revealed Sesto Alva’s identity, and the less successful one to locate Elena’s father. Judge Trowbridge then dismissed the captain from the witness box, and sought to move matters along.

“Sesto Alva was found dead on August the sixteenth—a week ago Friday—lying by the side of the road near Bracebridge. His discoverer was a farmer of that village who is with us today. We will now hear from Mr. Knox.”

After disengaging the arm of his anxious wife, and
looking over to Reverend Rowe, Caleb Knox rose and made his way forward. He raised a brown hand and swore to be truthful, then sat squirming in his chair while he clasped thick fingers together in his lap.

“Mr. Knox. You are a farmer, owning land in the village of Bracebridge?”

“Aye, that’s right, sir … Your Honor.”

“And on Friday last, you discovered …?”

“I found a man dead, as you say, sir, lying in the grass … and his horse grazing nearby. It seemed to me the horse might have thrown him off, after some sort of fright—”

Trowbridge quickly interrupted, asking if the farmer had seen any specific evidence of such a thing himself. Knox replied that he had not.

“There is also, I believe, a rather interesting coincidence involving a pin.”

The farmer told of picking up the unusual cloak clasp. It was shown to the jury, who took its time admiring the action of the clever ornament, and its strange, serpentine design.

“Signor Lahte,” Trowbridge told them, “suspects that this object, which he admits is his own, was taken from him by Sesto Alva while both lived in Milan. You will hear from Signor Lahte later. Have you anything more to tell us, Mr. Knox?”

“No, sir. Only that I wished none hurt, and hope never to harm any man!”

“An admirable aim. You may step down.”

Trowbridge conferred briefly with the coroner again, and then called for Richard Longfellow to enter the witness box. He came carrying a small box in his hand.

“You, sir,” said the judge, “invited Signor Lahte here from Milan?”

“In a manner of speaking. I once promised him my
hospitality, should he ever have reason to travel to Massachusetts. His recent arrival was a surprise—though a pleasant one.”

“Signor Lahte came to your home in Bracebridge on Friday, August the sixteenth?”

“That is so.”

“On the same afternoon Sesto Alva was discovered dead on the Boston-Worcester road, not two miles away. Apparently he found out where you were from an unknown person in Boston. But you did not invite Signor Alva?”

“I did not, for I knew nothing of his existence.”

“Yet some time later, you went to see the place where his body was discovered.”

Longfellow caught Mrs. Willett’s eye before he made his answer. “As our constable was absent, and it seemed to be my duty as a selectman, I went to see the area early on Sunday morning.”

“And what did you find?” Trowbridge asked, leaning forward.

“First, this object …”

Lifting the lid from the box he held, Longfellow produced the granite sphere, and stood to hand it over to the judge. “In studying it closely, I perceived several bits of wool, which I removed. Further examination with the aid of a microscope showed that these strands came from the felt hat worn by the deceased. Thus, I feel certain the wound on Alva’s head was made when his hat came into contact with the object you hold.”

“But you cannot say exactly how this happened?”

“Not exactly, no, but—”

“What else did you notice there?”

Longfellow described, as he’d done for Trowbridge the day before, the rock’s position when he first saw it, as well as the mystery of its apparent position somewhat earlier.
“There was a bottle, too, lying nearby …” He finished by telling of the victim’s stained coat, intending to tie this to what he believed to have been the state of Sesto Alva’s constitution at the time of death—until the judge again raised a hand.

Watching her neighbor’s growing confidence, Charlotte suspected that he, too, now believed what she’d first imagined—that the granite orb could have been used as a weapon, and might well have been wielded with the thought of assuring a man’s swift and certain end. But had it been held by Thomas Pomeroy? She glanced to see Elena’s reaction to the testimony, recalling the girl’s fear at her narrow escape three days earlier … and its return with the discovery of her husband’s recovered pin.

It seemed that Lahte, too, sought Elena’s eyes; Charlotte saw the young wife respond by slipping a hand into his own. At least, for the moment, she seemed to feel safe.

“Only days after Sesto Alva’s death, an attempt on another life took place in Bracebridge,” the judge now informed the courtroom, once he’d allowed Richard Longfellow to step down. “According to witnesses, the perpetrator was a youth named Thomas Pomeroy, lately employed at the Bracebridge Inn. We will hear more of him from the inn’s landlord, Mr. Pratt.”

“I did find Pomeroy a useful fellow to have around,” Jonathan maintained some moments later, “for the short time he was with us. In fact, I believe I shall miss him, even though …”

“How did you come to offer him employment, sir?”

Jonathan related Pomeroy’s story of his departure from London and his family, the dangerous ocean voyage, and his eventual arrival in Boston. He ended by telling of the yellow diamond he’d been given in exchange for gold.

“On what day did you receive this gem?” the magistrate asked.

“One week ago. August the seventeenth,” Jonathan added, concern evident on his round face. “The day after Sesto Alva was found. Though I was able to give Pomeroy the coins he asked for only three days ago—on the day he disappeared. I have the stone here.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, and began to unwrap the brilliant from its soft covering.

“I will ask you to leave it with the court,” said Trowbridge, once he had taken the evidence. With some regret, Jonathan Pratt nodded.

“There is a further somewhat curious thing on which no one has yet touched today,” the judge continued, addressing the twelve men on his right. “This is the fact that Signora Lahte went about, both in Boston and in Bracebridge, wearing the clothing of a boy, while pretending to be a servant—first, with the knowledge of Sesto Alva, then with that of her husband.”

To a man, the jurors raised their chins, the better to see the beautiful young woman who sat demurely by her protector, her dark eyes cast down.

“It seems Signora Lahte felt safer, while on a foreign shore, in hiding her feminine nature from those who might do her harm—including the father she feared. Yet even under a man’s coat and breeches, Signora Lahte captured the attention of Thomas Pomeroy. Mr. Pratt, had young Pomeroy opportunity to meet this lady’s protector, Sesto Alva, on the road? Would he not have been missed at the inn?”

“He may have stepped out for some time. After all, the entire village has had Signor Lahte’s visit on its mind lately, and seems to have lost half its usual sense. I doubt even my own wife would have noticed Pomeroy’s absence.”

Upon hearing this, Lydia Pratt glared in such a fashion that her husband had new reason for regret.

“I believe you have told us enough,” Judge Trowbridge replied. He indicated that the landlord might step down, and watched as Jonathan went to sit next to a rigid wife. “Now, Signor Lahte, will you speak?”

The musico walked forward, with a noble bearing that captured all eyes in the room. Although told it was not entirely necessary he, too, raised his hand, and vowed to speak truthfully.

“Will you tell us, sir,” asked Judge Trowbridge, “how you came near to losing your life on Wednesday morning?”

While Lahte described the course of events, the eyes of the judge watched those before him. When the witness had finished, the magistrate inquired further.

“You did not know this Pomeroy? Never met him, before going to Bracebridge?”