The Devil's Cold Dish (6 page)

“Because of Sam Prentiss?” Rees asked.

Caldwell inclined his head. “That, and other matters.”

“I can scarcely credit his popularity.”

“He wasn't popular. But he was one of them. He spent a lot of time in the Bull. You—you're almost a stranger.”

“Because I have better things to do with my time than spend all day in the tavern?” Rees said in a sour voice.

Caldwell smiled. “Some of them don't much like me either. I've had to put more than a few in jail. But you—well, some think you should have hanged for what happened to Sam.”

For a moment everyone was silent. Then Lydia said with a hint of sharpness, “I believe envy has something to do with this as well.”

Caldwell nodded. “That's true. But the envy is directed at more than this productive farm. You return from Boston and Philadelphia and New York with that town bronze. A lot of the men think you're arrogant.”

Rees said nothing. He knew he was considered proud. Long ago he'd made a conscious effort to become someone different, and better, from the boy he'd been. And although the farm drew him back, he didn't think of Dugard as home, more like a half-forgotten memory from his past.

“I'll regret Sam and his injury for all of my days,” he said at last. “But Dugard is not the world. And I've no patience for these petty squabbles.”

Caldwell tipped his head to one side and opened his mouth, but chose not to speak. He bowed to Lydia and turned to go. Rees followed him to the front porch and watched the constable mount his nag and disappear down the drive.

Rees went back into the kitchen. For once the house was quiet. The younger children were in bed although not yet asleep—he could still hear muffled giggles. David and Simon had not returned from the pond. And Lydia had taken Jerusha out to the back steps. She now owned her first doll and was learning to sew by making dresses for it. Lydia had promised Jerusha a matching frock for herself. Since the girl's taste ran to flounces and bows, the task had become more involved than either she or Lydia had expected. Jerusha was currently struggling with the bodice of the doll's dress and had ripped out the seams so many times the cloth was beginning to fray.

“This is all part of learning,” Lydia repeated over and over, particularly when especially tired of Jerusha's tears. But today Jerusha hummed softly to herself as she sewed, so Rees assumed all was going well.

Lydia looked over her shoulder at Rees and he gave her a reassuring smile. “I have weaving to do for the Widow Penney,” he said.

He went up to his bedroom. Joseph, chubby thumb planted firmly in his mouth, was already asleep in the basket by the bed. Rees turned and looked at the loom. Since his return from Salem, he'd taken on a few weaving jobs. Not as many as he'd expected, though, and he would soon finish the twill upon which he was now working. He checked the tension and sat down. He began working the treadles, the soft rhythmic clacking filling the room. As the shuttle flew across the warp from right hand to left, all the worry of the day evaporated. He could feel it leave his body, as though it were a fluid leaking through the soles of his feet and disappearing. He relaxed and his thoughts turned involuntarily to Zadoc Ward.

Ward's murder did not surprise Rees. Ward was a bully and, likeliest, he had tormented the wrong man. But why then hadn't he been killed in town? Perhaps the shooter was so terrified of Ward he was afraid to be within punching distance? But why go so far away? And how had Ward been enticed to Little Knob? Only a powerful reason would draw him away from the comforts of the tavern. Rees unconsciously shook his head. He didn't understand the purpose behind such careful planning. Moreover, Rees admitted to himself that he found the proximity of the murder to his own brawl with Ward worrying. If someone else had fought with a man who was then found dead, Rees would be suspicious too. But in this case, the juxtaposition of the two events must be coincidence. Telling himself not to allow silly fancies to distract him, Rees turned his thoughts to Farley.

Maybe he was behind the murder? He owned a rifle and had the necessary skill. Then, perhaps, after murdering Ward, Farley had arranged for himself and Drummond to find the body? Rees mulled over that possibility for a moment and then regretfully shook his head. He couldn't imagine why Farley would kill Ward now and besides, Rees really doubted that little bantam rooster had the necessary intelligence to plan something like this.

And how, he wondered, could he find the answers when he had been expressly forbidden to participate in the investigation? He already knew he was going to disobey both Hanson and Caldwell. He had to. Not just because he needed the excitement of unraveling this puzzle, although that was part of it. Without this case to look forward to all he had was the drudgery of farmwork. But he felt even Ward deserved the justice of having his killer identified and punished. Maybe, while he wouldn't question anyone, he would engage in a few conversations. Surely some people would still speak to him.

He worked for some time, until the loom was in shadow and he could barely see the warp in front of him. “Hurry up, Squeaker,” David called from outside. The front door slammed. Rees staggered to his feet, his knees stiff after sitting in one position for so long. He went downstairs and into the kitchen.

Both David and Simon were still damp from their swim. David's coppery mop, darkened and slicked down by water, looked almost as black as Simon's hair.

“We haven't had dessert yet,” Simon was saying to Lydia, sounding shocked that she had forgotten.

Lydia laughed. “Of course. How silly of me.” She brought out the raspberry pie and cut several large pieces. Simon poured cream over his and tucked in as though he hadn't eaten dinner just a few hours ago. He was wearing one of David's old suits and by the way the buttons strained across the chest the seams would soon have to be let out.

“Was it fun?” Rees asked.

“Yes,” said Simon with enthusiasm. “Do you know the pond is full of frogs?”

David grinned at the younger boy. “Yes, and you jumped a mile when the first bullfrog started croaking.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Jerusha finished the bodice of her doll's dress,” Lydia said. “And a good job she made of it too.” Jerusha smiled proudly and lowered her eyes to her plate.

Rees took a bite of pie and grinned around at his family. He had to admit there were compensations to less excitement. Like being home now. Maybe, for the good of his wife and children, he would step back from Ward's murder and allow Caldwell to look into this one on his own. With Rees making just a few suggestions here and there.

 

Chapter Five

By four a.m. Rees was awake and in the pasture with David. Once the early chores were finished, Rees harnessed Hannibal to the wagon, and by six he and Lydia were on their way to the mill. Lydia had packed a large basket with freshly baked bread, eggs, cheese, and a jar of honey. She turned and smiled at Rees and he grinned back. Once away from the farm happiness swept over him. Land and livestock measured a man's wealth, but Rees frequently thought he would rather be a poor itinerant weaver than a farmer. And the worst task of all, haying, was still to come today. He shook off that thought so it would not lessen his pleasure in the day.

He let Lydia down near Widow Ward's hovel. The door stood open and a few battered chairs had been placed in the wagon bed. Once Lydia disappeared inside, Rees drove across the dirt road to the mill. It was just seven by his pocket watch. The sun had been up for some time and Rees could hear the turning of the huge millstone even from a distance away. His heart began pounding; he dreaded the inevitable remarks Tom McIntyre would make.

Rees pulled up beside the other wagons. The miller had promised to finish grinding Rees's corn by this morning. Hoping McIntyre had done that, Rees went inside and up the small rise and around the wall into the mill proper.

To his surprise, Sam was there and McIntyre was just handing him a sack of something. Grinning and clutching the bag tightly in his hands, Sam brushed by Rees and disappeared outside.

Rees touched Mac on the shoulder to gain his attention. Here inside with the sounds of the fast-moving water in the river, the splash of the mill wheel turning and the rumble of the stone filling the space with an almighty roar, it was too noisy to hear the speech of a man standing only inches away. Rees put his hands over his ears, wondering how McIntyre tolerated it all day. Mac's father, Rees recalled, had gone deaf before he turned fifty.

Mac motioned Rees back outside and then gestured to his two eldest sons. Rees escaped with relief. Several minutes elapsed before the miller and his sons appeared. Elijah and one of his young brothers carried Rees's barrels on their shoulders; they dropped them into the wagon beds with a resonant clatter and went back inside the mill.

“Why was Sam here?” Rees asked. “Were you giving him charity?”

“He runs errands for us from time to time,” McIntyre said. He glanced at Rees and then looked quickly away. Although five years older than Rees, the same age as Farley, the miller had been smaller at sixteen than Rees was as an eleven-year-old. He was still much shorter than Rees now. “Ward's funeral will take place in an hour. Mrs. Ward has Father Stephen coming. I hope you aren't planning to attend.”

“You know I had nothing to do with his death, don't you?” Rees asked, fixing an intent gaze upon the other man. Hearing Mac say he knew Rees was innocent of murder mattered a great deal.

“You're not a murderer,” McIntyre said. Rees released his breath in relief. Although he and Mac would never agree on politics, they'd known each other all their lives, and he couldn't bear having someone he knew so well believing him a killer. “Ward wasn't a good worker. Too busy drinking and fighting. With everyone.” He fixed his gaze upon Rees. “I did wonder if you—by accident, I mean—you have that temper.”

“Ward was shot,” Rees reminded him. “From a distance by a coward.” He knew he sounded hurt by Mac's implication.

“I know, I know.” McIntyre took a step backward. Rees did not want to defend himself like a hysterical girl. He turned to the wagon and was surprised to see Lydia crossing the road, the full basket still over her arm.

“She wouldn't accept it.” Lydia turned to face Rees. Her time outside in the sunshine helping in the fields and tending to the bees had browned her skin and streaked the hair around her cap with gold. “Oh, Will,” she said, her voice breaking with dismay, “as desperate as she is, she wouldn't accept my basket.”

Rees's belly tightened. “Because of me,” he said. “Because she thinks I shot her husband.”

“No. No,” Lydia said, putting a gloved hand on his arm. “Not you. She said she heard rumors I was a witch.” She tried to smile but Rees could see the tears just under the surface. “Mrs. Ward assured me she didn't believe in such gossip, oh no, but for the sake of her children…” Her voice trailed off and she swiped at her eyes. “They were so hungry, Will. I could see it. The way they stared at my basket. But Mrs. Ward was too frightened to accept the food.”

Rees realized his hands were trembling with anger and his stomach was so queasy he thought he might throw up. “I see.” He paused. They were both too upset to go straight home and anyway he had only haying to look forward to. “Let's stop at the Contented Rooster. Take of some refreshment and talk about this before we go home.”

“Your sister is expecting you and I have to start pulling the honey from the hives.”

“We won't be gone much longer,” Rees said, lifting the basket from her arm and putting it with the flour in the wagon. “And it will be good to have a few moments where we can talk in peace.”

“Very well.” Lydia managed a slight smile. “That will be pleasant.”

When Rees and Lydia entered the coffeehouse, Susannah Anderson, the hostess, stepped forward to greet them. She was a few years younger than Rees's thirty-six and they'd known one another since dame school. She was dressed in pale yellow sprigged cotton and, despite the matronly cap covering her blond curls, she looked like the girl Rees remembered from his teens.

As she approached, leaving the jolly group with which she had been conversing, a burst of laughter followed her. Rees glanced over at them. “Something amusing?”

“Oh, stories of old man Winthrop's ghost are circulating again.” Susannah shook her head. “The poor man has been dead and buried the better part of ten years and still people talk about mysterious lights in his house and boys dare each other to steal apples from his orchard.”

“I did that,” Rees said with an answering smile. “Old man Winthrop was fearsome enough alive.”

Susannah nodded but said, “Oh, the boys dare each other to go to his orchard at dusk, when spirits are most active. No one has had the courage yet.”

“He was a notorious miser,” Rees said. “If I believed in ghosts, his is the ghost I could see returning to protect his property.”

“I agree. In my opinion, his parsimony killed him. It drove away his wife and children and when he fell ill there was no one to care for him. Why, his body wasn't discovered for over two weeks. But a ghost? You and I both know that is simply a tale.”

“There are still people who believe in them,” Rees said. “Even Father Stephen.”

“Yes. And my own husband, Jack.” Susannah shook her head, smiling with amusement. “Coffee?” Rees turned a look of inquiry upon his wife.

“Tea for me,” she said.

“One coffee, one tea,” he said. Susannah hurried away. As Rees pulled out the chair for Lydia he noticed that they were attracting furtive glances from the other customers. But when Rees tried to catch someone's eye, suddenly everyone was gazing elsewhere.

Susannah returned a few minutes later with a teapot, Rees's coffee, and a plate of scones. “You both look downcast. Is there anything I can do?”