The Devil's Cold Dish (3 page)

Caldwell stopped at the end of the track and tied his nag to a tree, next to the two horses already there. One was a farm horse, rough-coated and hard used. But the other? Rees stared. No one in Dugard had the funds to own an aristocrat like that.

Rees pulled up beside Caldwell. “The body is here?” he asked. Caldwell turned to Rees and inclined his head.

“That Virginia land speculator Drummond found him. Drummond and Zedediah Farley.”

That explained the difference in the horses then, Rees thought, recalling his meeting with the beautifully clad Virginian this morning. “But what were these men doing here?” he asked, turning a puzzled glance at Caldwell. “Nothing much here but rocks and pine trees.” Unless one of them had killed Ward?

“Drummond lost everything speculating on the western lands and thought Maine might be a good location to recoup his losses.” Caldwell directed a sardonic smile upon his companion. “Besides, Magistrate Hanson introduced Mr. Drummond to an old friend of yours—Molly Bowditch. I understand they've formed an attachment.”

Rees puffed out his breath in surprise. His investigation into the death of Molly's husband had laid bare her secrets, causing a scandal that rocked Dugard. She was now estranged from her children and from most of Dugard society, and only her friendship with Magistrate Hanson had saved her from worse. “Does he know her history?” he asked.

“Doubt it,” Caldwell said with a grin. “And no one's likely to tell an outsider. Especially not someone from Virginia.” He paused. “Anyway, I think there's something off about him, too. Not quite sure he is who he says he is.”

As he talked, he led Rees into the forest. But Caldwell did not head left, toward Bald Knob. Instead he followed a faint trail up the gentler slope of Little Knob, Bald Knob's shorter companion. The evidence of a lightning strike several years ago remained visible in the burned trunks and blackened rock. But the scars were clothed in green and the fast-growing birches were already springing up and filling the emptiness with white trunks.

At first the shallow grade was easy, the granite protruding through the soil acting like stone steps. But soon the climb became much steeper. All conversation ceased as Rees and Caldwell hauled themselves upward from boulder to boulder. The birches thinned, giving way to maple and oak and then to evergreens. Mosquitoes whined about them and both men punctuated their climb with slaps. Rees's spirits began to lift. The sun fell warmly on his shoulders and the spicy scent of pine needles underfoot eased the frustration and boredom that had dogged Rees for weeks. Since his return from Salem, his life had been an endless succession of farm chores with only a visit to the mill once in a while for variety. He loved his family, and missed them terribly when he was on the road, but the relentless grind of farmwork oppressed him.

The sound of voices ahead carried through the trees to the two climbers. Rees turned and glanced over his shoulder at Caldwell. “Drummond and Farley,” Caldwell wheezed. Rees put on a burst of speed. He was out of shape. Time was he could fly up these hills and barely break a sweat—and that was when he had walked all the way here from the farm. Now his thighs ached, he was breathing hard and perspiration clothed him in a clammy blanket.

“Nothing much up here but moose and bear,” Farley was saying to the tall blond man next to him as Rees burst through the trees. Farley was five or so years Rees's senior, but they knew each other well enough to regard one another with mutual loathing. “Can't farm,” Farley continued, spitting a stream of tobacco juice in Rees's direction for emphasis. “The soil is too rocky. My father thought he could take the lumber.” He wore homespun and boots and carried a rifle in his right hand. His companion took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. In contrast to Farley, the tall blond was dressed in shoes, a pink silk embroidered jacket now marked with dirt, and a lacy neck cloth. Rees hid a grin. Climbing Little Knob must have been a struggle in that garb.

“Mr. Farley. Mr. Drummond,” Caldwell said politely. Both men glanced at the constable and then fixed their eyes upon Rees. He wondered at the hostility in Farley's glare; it seemed unusually pointed. Surely the farmer did not suspect Rees of the murder? Anyway, although it was doubtful the Virginian knew Zadoc Ward, Farley definitely did. He'd suffered at the bully's hands so often Rees would have speculated about the scrawny farmer's guilt if Drummond hadn't been there as well. And if Farley suspected Rees of the murder, he would be thanking Rees rather than condemning him.

Rees acknowledged them with a nod and turned his attention to the body. The granite shelf on which Ward lay protruded from the hill almost as though it were a stage, bare of trees and vegetation. The sun shone upon the corpse, illuminating it. Rees could focus on nothing else. He hurried across the stony surface and knelt beside it.

Ward had been shot twice, once through the upper chest and once through the neck. Rees guessed that second wound was a head shot gone wrong. Not that it mattered; Ward was dead. His death had been fairly recent—his blood had formed a sticky darkening pool that had just begun to dry. “He must have come here straight from the mill this morning,” Rees muttered. And the shooter owned a rifle and was an experienced marksman; no musket could hit a target with such accuracy. Rees glanced back at Farley, wondering if the rifle he carried had been fired. Rees reminded himself that many men in Dugard owned rifles and most were good shots. Ward himself had carried a musket, but it had dropped from his limp hand. The bags of shot and powder were still slung around his chest. He had not suspected anything and had made no effort to load his weapon.

Rising, Rees stared around him, searching for the shooter's location. There was nowhere on this outcropping for anyone to hide. Rees looked at Caldwell, who was now crossing the rock. Maybe another man had come up behind Ward? But he had not been shot in the back.

Rees returned his attention to the body. It was lying with the head toward Caldwell and with the feet facing the edge of the drop-off.

Rees walked to the edge and peered down. The steep rock face descended into a nest of trees and shrubbery about twenty feet below. No one had climbed up that way. He turned and looked across the ravine at Bald Knob. A rifle and an experienced marksman could easily make the shot from there.

“What's he doing here?” Farley's querulous voice sent a flock of black birds spiraling into the sky. The crows had already been at the body; Rees turned his gaze away from the bloody ruins of Ward's eyes and found Farley staring at him with angry hostility.

Farley was a short, bandy-legged man and his face was deeply creased. His wispy hair reached his shoulders in a frizzy gray fringe and he looked older than his forty-one years. Under Rees's glare, Farley grasped the leather bag hanging around his neck and stared at Rees nervously. Farley's world was filled with ghosts and bogeymen and omens; Rees thought him a superstitious fool. And his wife, the local wise woman and midwife, was no better, hanging apples shriveled into faces for good luck and putting ears of corn on women in labor. Rees suddenly decided he could not allow Mrs. Farley to deliver Lydia's baby. He wouldn't have that nonsense in his house. But where would they find another midwife?

“What do you mean?” Caldwell asked, interrupting Rees's thoughts. “Will is very experienced at solving these kinds of riddles, beginning when he was a soldier in the War of Independence.”

“He was fighting with Ward just today,” Farley interrupted.

“I know. Ward fought with everyone,” Caldwell said. But he threw a nervous glance at his friend. Rees was also wondering about the coincidence of his battle with Ward mere hours before his death, but he couldn't let the implied accusation lie.

“You fought with him, too,” he said. Both Ward and Farley had been in their cups and aggressive; the clumsy battle had been described to Rees as a regular Punch and Judy show.

“Not today,” Farley said. He turned his pale eyes toward Rees. “And we all know what
you
is capable of. Your own brother-in-law…” Rees took an involuntary step forward. Farley jumped back.

“I'm sure there are others who hated this man,” Caldwell said, his words clipped.

Farley did not reply, his gaze fixed balefully upon Rees and his hand clutched tightly about the little bag upon his chest.

“I'll go down,” Rees said to the constable, “and wait for you below.” He wanted to examine the hill nearby anyway. Caldwell nodded, his expression sympathetic.

“I'll speak with you later,” he said.

*   *   *

Annoyance sent Rees running down the slope, jumping over rocks and careening around trees. He did not slow down until he slipped on a patch of damp granite and had to grab a tree trunk for support. Then he paused, breathing hard, and took stock. Farley was an idiot and many people in Dugard thought Rees a brawler, so why should Farley's opinion matter? Because Rees was already tired of the quick looks and veiled accusations he'd met every day in town since his return from Salem. And now Farley clutched at his amulet and looked at Rees as though he were a devil. Infuriating, but not worth breaking a leg because of it. Rees inhaled a deep breath and proceeded more slowly down the slope. He cut through the woods toward the other hill, crossing a small stream that was more mud than water and climbing through the litter of downed trees and leaves toward Bald Knob's summit.

Rees stood at the bottom of the hill for a moment, panting from exertion as he consciously pushed his anger aside. Philip, the Indian guide Rees had known during the war, had shown him how to look for signs of someone's passage through the woods. Rees looked up the slope before him, trying to identify broken branches and vegetation crushed by unwary feet. The marks were there and, once he looked for them, easy to see.

Rees began to follow the pale splintered twigs laboring upward until he reached the granite dome that formed the top. Breathless, his calves on fire, he paused to catch his breath. Saplings and underbrush clung to the small patches of soil on this rocky hill. Except for the whine of insects, it was silent and peaceful.

He followed the rocky path under the lacy veil of green until he could see Caldwell standing by the body on the promontory below. Rees could clearly hear the constable's argument with Farley, who wanted no part of carrying the body down to Rees's wagon. Clinging to the small bag at his throat with such force Rees wondered that the cord did not break, Farley cried, “No, no, I won't touch death. His ghost will come after me, it will.”

With a derisive snort, Rees knelt on the granite and looked around. Trees and low shrubs grew thickly here; no one below could see a man hiding even if they should look. A cairn of small stones with a hollow in the center sat upon the rock slab. Rees thought the murderer had probably rested his rifle barrel on this support. To test his theory, he found a fairly straight branch and lay prone upon the ground, positioning the stick as though it were a gun. He stared down directly at the back of Caldwell's head, close enough to see his bald spot. Ward hadn't had a chance.

Although Rees scoured the area, he found nothing that identified Ward's murderer. Finally, he descended the slope, following the killer's trail all the way to the bottom. He examined the ground carefully but did not see any horse tracks or the grooves of wagon wheels. Had the murderer walked? Since this area was only ten miles out of town walking was possible. Or had Ward and his killer driven here together? Rees considered that possibility, realizing he'd seen no horse or wagon at the foot of the other hill. If Ward had ridden out here on his own, his horse or buggy would have still been there. Unless the murderer had taken it? Of course he had.

Rees turned his thoughts to a new question: who would go to such trouble to kill Ward? He was a bully and a blowhard, the kind of man who probably would have been killed in a brawl anyway. So why here? Ward had no business on Little Knob. Who would go to the trouble of luring him to this out-of-the-way place?

Head buzzing with questions, Rees started back up Little Knob to the body. When he reached the top he saw Farley and his companion were already gone. Caldwell had managed to drag Ward's body away from the cliff and was staring down at the corpse in dismay. “Thank God you've returned,” he said to Rees. “The others left.”

“I know,” Rees said. He hastily sketched in his findings on Bald Knob.

“So, this murder was planned?” Caldwell said, aghast. “I thought, maybe an argument that got out of hand?”

“If it had happened in the Bull, maybe. You know that. But Ward was lured here.” The blunt statement hung in the air. “Had to be. Otherwise he would have been killed at the tavern. No one would be surprised then.” Rees paused, his thoughts veering off in another direction. “Was it to hide the murder? The body might never have been discovered but for Farley and his friend.”

“That at least makes sense,” Caldwell said, sounding somewhat relieved. “Farley told me someone suggested he show his father's property to Mr. Drummond. And why not? It's no good for anything except timber. So the killer probably hoped Ward would never be found, or at least not for a long time. Then these two men happened upon the body.”

“They were here at this exact spot at the right time to find Ward?” Rees began shaking his head. “Coincidence? I don't believe it. No, they knew exactly where to look.”

Caldwell caught Rees's gaze. “You don't think they had anything to do with the murder, do you? Why, Drummond never even met the man.”

Rees shrugged. “Then Drummond and Farley were sent here, expressly for the purpose of finding the body.”

“But why?” Caldwell looked around at the forest.

Rees did not reply although he thought he knew. If the murder itself was not the secret this mountain held, then it had to be the identity of the killer. He had wanted to be certain no one would know who he was. But he still wanted the body found. So probably not a casual brawler from the Bull. “Had to be a local boy,” Rees muttered to himself. Who else would know the Knobs so intimately?