The Devil's Cold Dish (2 page)

Abigail, the Quaker girl who came in to help, glanced at them from her position by the fireplace but didn't speak. She'd returned to their employ with Lydia's arrival home and seemed even quieter than before. Jerusha, only nine but already a capable and stern young woman—well, she'd had to be with a drunken mother and the care of her younger siblings—looked up as Lydia and Rees approached.

“Where are the little ones?” Lydia asked. Jerusha nodded at the back door. Through it Judah, Joseph, and Nancy could be seen, running around and shouting.

“Nancy's watching them,” she said. Turning her gaze to Rees, Jerusha said, “Your cheek is bleeding.”

“Yes, it is,” Rees agreed.

“Fetch me a bowl, Abby,” Lydia said. “And put some warm water in it, please.” She urged Rees into the side room and into a chair, despite his protests. “What happened?”

“Oh, Tom McIntyre had another customer. Mr. Drummond, a gentleman from Virginia by his accent. One of those land speculators. He was holding forth on George Washington and why he should have been impeached. I don't know why people can't leave the man alone.” With last fall's election, John Adams had won the presidency and Thomas Jefferson the vice presidency. Washington had gone into retirement, a battered, aging lion.

“Was Mr. Drummond the one who did this?” She gestured to the cut upon his cheek.

“No,” Rees said. Drummond had already left when the argument exploded.

“I suppose you had to speak up,” Lydia said, her voice dropping with disappointment. “I love your sense of justice but I do wish you didn't feel the need to fight every battle.” A former Shaker, she abhorred violence. Besides, she worried about the consequences, especially now after the serious injury to Sam.

Rees knew how she felt. He was trying to curb his temper, mostly because he wanted Lydia and his adopted children to be happy in Dugard. But so far he'd broken every promise to do better that he'd made to himself.

“We wouldn't have a country without the president's leadership during the War for Independence,” Rees said, hearing the defensiveness in his voice. After fighting under General Washington during the War for Independence, Rees would hear no criticism of the man who'd become the first president. Those who hadn't fought, or who had only belonged to the Continental Army between planting and harvest, could not possibly understand what Washington had achieved.

Rees hesitated, fighting the urge to justify himself, but finally bursting into speech. “Mac and that Drummond fellow both favor Jefferson and the French. Drummond said that President Washington's actions during the Jay affair smacked of treason. And when I said that the president had done his very best and that if anyone was guilty of treason it was John Jay, Mac said that the problem was that General Washington was a tired, senile old man.” He stopped talking.

When McIntyre had called Washington senile, Rees's temper had risen and he had pushed the smaller man with all his strength. Since Mac probably weighed barely more than nine stone, he flew backward into the side of the mill. Flour from his clothing rose up at the impact, filling the air with a fine dust. That was when Zadoc Ward, Mac's cousin, jumped on Rees and began pummeling him. Rees had already had a previous fight with the belligerent black-haired fellow who was usually found in the center of every brawl. Rees had caught Ward bullying Sam in the tavern and would have knocked him down if Constable Caldwell hadn't broken up the fight and sent Rees on his way.

Rees permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction. At the mill, he'd put down Ward like the mad dog he was. But by then Mac's eldest son, Elijah, and some of the other mill employees had arrived. They'd grabbed Rees. In the ensuing altercation, Ward, who was looking for revenge, had hit Rees in the face and sent him crashing to the ground in his turn. But Rees had bloodied a few noses before that. He didn't want to admit to Lydia that he had participated in the brawl just like a schoolboy, but he suspected she already knew. She frowned anxiously.

“Well, you can hardly blame Mr. McIntyre for his unhappiness,” she said, turning Rees's face up to the light. “The British have continued capturing American ships. Wasn't his brother impressed by the British into their navy? Anyway, it's not only the French who were, and still are, angry about Mr. Jay's treaty. You were the one who told me he was burned in effigy all up and down the coast. And that the cry was ‘Damn John Jay. Damn everyone who won't damn John Jay and damn everyone who won't stay up all night damning John Jay.'”

“Yes,” Rees admitted with some reluctance.

“And now, with the Bank of England withholding payments to American vendors, Mr. McIntyre might go broke and lose his mill.”

“But none of this was President Washington's fault,” Rees argued. “He has always striven for fairness. To be neutral in all things. Personally, I blame Mr. Hamilton.”

“I'm certain Mr. Jefferson bears some of the responsibility,” Lydia said in an acerbic tone. “He is so pro-French.” Rees wished he didn't agree. Although he concurred with many of Jefferson's Republican ideals, the vice president
was
pro-French and a slaveholder besides. And Rees could not forgive Jefferson for turning on Washington and criticizing him. “Discussing politics is never wise,” Lydia continued. “You know better. Passions run so high. And I see your argument resulted in fisticuffs.”

“Mr. McIntyre struck me first,” Rees said as Lydia dabbed at the cut above his eyebrow. The hot water stung and he grunted involuntarily. “You know how emotional he is.” Mac had spent his life quivering in outrage over something or other, and for all his small size he had been embroiled in as many battles as Rees. But now, with the wisdom of hindsight, Rees was beginning to wonder why Mac had been so eager to quarrel with him. They'd always been friends. Yet Mac had been, well, almost hostile.

“He can't weigh much more than one hundred twenty or so pounds soaking wet,” Lydia added in a reproachful tone.

“I know. This,” he gestured to the cut, “came from his cousin, Zadoc Ward.” In fact Ward would have continued the fight, but Elijah had held him back. “I knocked him down, though,” Rees said in some satisfaction. Lydia did not speak for several seconds, although she gave his wound an extra hard wipe. “Ow,” Rees said.

“I hope Mr. McIntyre will still grind our corn,” Lydia said after a silence.

“Of course he will. Politics doesn't have anything to do with business,” Rees said. “Tomorrow I'll ride over to pick up the three bushels I brought over this morning.”

A scrape of a shoe at the door attracted Rees's attention and he looked over. “What did Aunt Caroline want?” David asked. As usual, seven-year-old Simon stood at David's elbow. After Rees and Lydia had adopted Jerusha and Simon and the other three last winter and brought them home, Simon had developed a severe case of hero worship for David. Now one was rarely seen without the other.

“Same thing as usual,” Rees said. “To move in.” Since Rees's return from Salem, David spoke to him only when necessary—or when he was shouting accusations. He hadn't forgiven his father for abandoning the farm during a very busy time when Rees traveled to Salem. Besides, Rees had left David to bear the censure of the neighbors. Rees knew many people in Dugard blamed him for Sam's condition, but it was David who'd suffered for it. In fact, during one of Rees's frequent arguments with the boy, he'd accused his father of running away and leaving his son to face the name-calling and worse. How much worse Rees didn't know. David refused to say but Rees could see how much it hurt him.

Nonetheless, David and Rees saw eye to eye about Caroline.

“I better count the chickens then,” David said.

“Why?” Rees asked, catching Lydia's frown. “What's the secret?” For a moment no one spoke. David fixed his eyes upon Lydia.

She capitulated with a sigh. “Every time Caroline comes here, something goes missing, usually a chicken,” Lydia said.

Rees stared from his wife to his son. “She's stealing from me?”

“Your sister's family is hungry,” Lydia said. “I think they're eating them. And of course they need the eggs.”

“Why didn't anyone tell me?” Rees asked. He had the clear sense that the entire story remained untold. And although he usually loved his wife's ability to see and sympathize with other people, in this case he wished she'd told him about his sister outright.

“This time Sam never left the parlor and Caroline went straight to the cart,” Lydia said, turning to David. “I think the chickens are safe today.”

“Charlie…?” Rees suggested reluctantly.

David shook his head. “No. Charlie would never steal from us.” He hesitated a moment and then blurted, “I hired him on to help us and promised we'd help with whatever little work he has. He's trying to support that family all on his own.”

“I offered something similar to my sister,” Rees said, directing a warm smile at his son, “but she turned me down.”

“Charlie was glad of the offer,” David said. He added with a wicked glint in his eye, “He hasn't finished his haying. You escaped most of that job here but I'm certain you won't refuse to help him bring in his hay.” He knew his father hated this job above all others. Rees fought with himself, torn between the urge to refuse and the desire to placate his son. Finally, surrendering to his wish to please David, Rees nodded and stretched his lips over his teeth in what he hoped David would see as a smile. But he didn't fool his son. David laughed.

A fusillade of knocks sounded on the front door. Now what, Rees wondered, starting down the hall. Before he reached the door it crashed back against the wall. Sunlight streamed into the hall. Lit from behind, the figure was identifiable only by his odor: Constable Caldwell.

“Zadoc Ward has been found murdered,” he said.

“What?” Rees said “When? How?”

Caldwell came into the hall and shut the door behind him. Although his shabby clothing was as dirty as Rees remembered, the constable had made some recent attempt to clean up. He'd washed his face and hands and tied his hair into a neat queue. “Where have you been these past few hours?” he demanded of Rees.

“You can't think I had anything to do with it,” Rees said. He and the constable had worked together to solve Nate Bowditch's death last summer, and Rees counted the constable among his friends. In fact, one of his best.

Caldwell's muddy eyes flicked to Rees and focused on the scabbed cheekbone. “Earlier this morning witnesses saw you and Ward engaging in fisticuffs at the mill.”

“Yes. So?” Rees said belligerently.

“If the positions were reversed, you would wonder about me,” Caldwell said, keeping his gaze fixed on Rees's face. Unwillingly Rees admitted that was true. “So, where were you?”

“Here,” Lydia said, the whisper of her skirts coming up behind him.

Caldwell nodded at Lydia respectfully but said, “Can anyone else confirm that?”

“My husband arrived home while his sister, Caroline Prentiss, and her husband were visiting,” she said. Rees thought visiting was far too polite a term for his sister's scene but did not protest. “Also,” Lydia continued, “Abigail Bristol is here. As you know,” she added as a reminder of the many times Caldwell had visited and eaten at their table, “she comes every day but Sunday to help.”

Caldwell heaved a sigh. “I had to check. You understand.”

“How did Ward die?” Rees asked, brushing off the apology.

“He was shot.” The constable grinned at Rees's stunned expression. “It wasn't a brawl. That would be no surprise since Ward bullied so many men in town. I'd have a lot of suspects then. But how many would take the time to plan a murder?”

Rees nodded. It was odd that Ward's murder occurred so soon after their fight this morning. Their previous brawl in the tavern had taken place only a few days earlier, but no doubt Ward had quarreled with many others between then and today.

“I won,” Rees said. “I'd have no reason to go after Ward again.”

“It would be more like Mr. Ward to try and murder my husband,” Lydia pointed out. Rees, who knew she worried about his safety, put his arm around her and drew her close.

“I didn't really think you had anything to do with the death,” Caldwell said, meeting Rees's eyes. “Are you coming to see the body then?”

“Of course,” Rees began. At that moment David came into the hall with Simon at his heels.

“What's going on?” David asked.

“I have to go out,” Rees said, purposely vague. “I'll tell you about it when I return.”

David's mouth turned down. “Come on, Squeaker,” he said to Simon. “Let's go outside and count the chickens.” He threw an angry glance at his father before turning around and disappearing into the kitchen. Rees sighed with regret. But he had begun to find this placid life at the farm mind-numbing, although he'd tried to ignore his boredom for David's sake, and the lure of an unexplained death was too enticing to resist. He followed Caldwell out of the house.

 

Chapter Two

Twenty minutes later Rees had Hannibal harnessed to the wagon and they were heading down the drive. With the excitement of a new investigation humming through his veins, Rees would have liked to pepper his good friend Caldwell with questions. But the constable was on horseback and almost out of earshot, so Rees had to curb his impatience.

To his surprise, they went almost due west, toward New Hampshire, not south toward the mill as he'd expected. Few farms lay in this direction; the rocky land rose into a series of jagged hills not amenable for cultivation. Rees had never been to the other side of this mountainous chain.

Caldwell turned off onto a wagon track that soon stopped altogether.
We're heading toward Bald Knob,
Rees thought. What was Ward doing out here? If the brawler had been killed in the street outside the Bull, Rees would not have been surprised. Whiskey and hot tempers led to many a riot and sometimes the participants were struck dead. Or perhaps by the mill; another worker might have tired of Ward's bullying. But here, far outside of town? It didn't make sense.