The Revelation of Louisa May (23 page)

Fortunately it was early, and they went
through back streets,
so few people saw them, and no one laughed
at the queer party
.

L
ouisa's thick sleep was interrupted by a familiar tapping on the wall outside. The woodpecker seemed intent on waking her. She sat up in her narrow bed, dislodging Goethe the kitten.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, scratching the cat's head. “I haven't been around much lately, have I?” Goethe's favorite spot was to curl up next to her while she wrote. She glanced at
her writing desk and her abandoned novel. Until Finch's murder was solved, Louisa doubted she would be doing any writing. The cat, as well as her heroine, would have to wait.

She hopped out of bed and stretched, hands reaching toward the ceiling, working out all the kinks in her back from a long night's rest. She couldn't recall ever sleeping so deeply.

Peeking out the window, she saw that the sun was just coming up, casting the garden in a pale pink light. The woodpecker had moved on to the chicken coop, and she could hear the outraged clucking of the hens. Pulling her quilt off the bed, Louisa wrapped it around her shoulders, slipped her feet into her boots, and went outside to enjoy the dawn. She climbed the hill path to the bench where she and Fred had kissed. Could it have been only two nights ago?

Tucking the blanket around her, she waited for the sun to finish its arriving. She heard the woodpecker again, but it took her a few moments to find him. He'd moved to the woodshed and now was flitting toward the tree that housed their post office. Louisa hoped that the woodpecker wouldn't do any lasting harm to the tree trunk.

Tap, tap, tap
. The woodpecker was industrious and even from where she sat, Louisa could see the small door to the post office pop open. Feeling the chill from her nose down to the stockingless toes, she stood up and started down. She stopped at the post office, intending to close it tightly, when she noticed something inside. Gingerly, she stuck her hand in and felt a
hard object wrapped in a linen handkerchief. She unfolded the cloth to reveal a gun.

As Louisa hoped, Beth was the first downstairs.

“It's odd, isn't it, without Father or Marmee here?” Beth asked. Her face was pale and there were dark shadows around her eyes. “I don't like it one bit. When will Father return?”

“I'm leaving in a few minutes to fetch him. He's bound to look a mess, and I'd rather the streets were empty when I bring him back. The town already thinks we're mad.” She gestured to the teapot on the table. “I've made tea.”

Beth poured herself a cup, added some honey harvested from Bronson's hives, and drank it thirstily. “Did you see Miss Whittaker last night?” she asked.

Louisa nodded. “She's innocent. Of the murder, at least. Otherwise she is a perfectly dreadful woman who wanted to use Father and Mr. Emerson to cheat people.” She explained everything that had happened, finishing with Fred's theory from the night before.

“Do you agree with Fred?” Beth asked in tears. “Did George kill that man?”

Louisa opened the drawer where she had hidden the gun. First she pulled out the handkerchief, knowing that the pistol would frighten Beth. “What do you think of this?” she asked.

“Why, that's one of my handkerchiefs,” Beth said, her brow furrowed. She took it and examined it closer. “Yes, I embroidered this for George. What is this dirt?” She rubbed at a gray stain and held up a finger dirty with an oily mark. Louisa was silent.

“Louy, what does George's handkerchief have to do with anything?”

Louisa swallowed hard. “I found it in our post office. It was wrapped around a gun. That mark is gun oil.”

Beth thrust the handkerchief away from her and rushed to the water pump and began scrubbing her hands with a rough cloth. When they were raw and splotched with red, she finally stopped and turned to her sister. “Did George do it?” she asked, in a voice that begged Louisa to lie to her.

Louisa put her arms around Beth and held her close. “I don't see any other explanation, Beth. He must have shot Finch, then used the handkerchief to clean his hands. He hid it before he ran away.”

“But how did he know about the post office?” Beth asked. “That's our secret.”

“Maybe he found it? Maybe Fred or Father told him about it.” Louisa shrugged. “But to my mind that handkerchief is the final piece of the puzzle.”

Beth started to shake, and Louisa realized she was quietly sobbing.

“I know, Beth, I don't like it, either. But George was pushed farther than anyone ought to be. Killing Finch was necessary to protect his own life. He has to think of his family.” Beth's sobs subsided a little. “And at least we won't have to see him tried and sent to jail. He's long gone from here.”

Beth stepped back. Rubbing her tears away with her fists, she looked like a small, frightened child. “I want Father,” she said. “Louy, please bring Father home.”

Louisa kissed Beth on the cheek. “I'll go now,” she promised.

“Should you take Fred with you?” Beth asked.

“Let him sleep,” Louisa decided. “I have to ask Father some hard questions, and Fred is entirely too respectful of Father's dignity.”

The town was eerily silent as she walked along Main Street. The businesses wouldn't open for hours, and the only people she saw were a few shopkeepers stocking their windows or sweeping in front of their stores. So as Louisa climbed the steps to the jailhouse, she was surprised to hear a loud, familiar voice coming from inside.

“I didn't
want
anyone to pay the tax,” Henry Thoreau said in the outraged tone of someone who has repeated the sentence many times. “I deliberately didn't pay it, and I'm more than happy to stay in jail to protest.”

The sheriff looked weary. “Henry, the tax is paid. I can't keep you in jail so you can make some sort of political point. Go home.” He ran his hand through his hair. “In fact, if you insist on staying, I'll have to start charging you for your room and board.”

“Then tell me who paid it!” Henry said angrily. “I'll set him straight and teach him to meddle in my affairs.” At that moment he noticed Louisa. She raised her eyebrows at the word “affairs,” and Henry flushed crimson and began pacing about the lobby.

She took advantage of his momentary silence to ask for her father. The sheriff was courteous and led her back to the nearest cell. “He spent a comfortable night, Miss Alcott. Dr. Bartlett already looked in on him this morning and said he's fine to go home. Send for Dr. Bartlett if your father has any bad headaches.”

Louisa held out her hand to thank him. “We're very grateful for you taking care of him last night. Is there any news about your investigation?”

The sheriff grimaced. “Not much. No one knows much about this fellow, so it's hard to see what might have gotten him killed. But the landlady at his boardinghouse told us he always had a thick wallet. We didn't find it on the body. So I'm inclined to think he was followed to the Emersons' . . . building? What do you call that thing?”

Louisa smiled. “Well, Mrs. Emerson calls it the Ruin.”

“A good name,” the sheriff said with a chuckle. “If that building lasts through next winter, I'll eat my hat.” His demeanor became serious. “I suspect a thief followed Finch there. He didn't want a witness, so he knocked your father out. Maybe Finch drew his gun to defend himself and the thief shot him. We're talking to the usual suspects . . .”

“The usual suspects?” Louisa asked faintly.

“We know who the troublemakers are in town. We always pull them in if something happens. But in this case, unless we get lucky, I don't think we'll ever know who killed him.”

Fortunately for George, Louisa thought.

“Here's your father,” the sheriff said. The door was ajar as if to emphasize that Bronson was not a prisoner. “I'd better go back and deal with Mr. Thoreau.”

As he turned to leave, Louisa touched his arm. “Sheriff, who did pay his tax? Who even knew he was in jail?”

The sheriff grinned and in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “Your friend Mr. Fred Llewellyn, that's who. As soon as he heard that Henry Thoreau was in jail, he arranged to pay his fine.”

“Fred did that?” Louisa asked. “Was it a lot of money?”

“Not too much,” the sheriff said. He named a figure that would have kept the Alcotts eating for several weeks. Louisa thought that Fred must have used the money he had brought to contribute to the housekeeping. He might regret his altruism when he ate his tenth consecutive meal of apples. “But he
asked me under any circumstances not to tell Henry who paid his fine.”

“Fred probably didn't understand Mr. Thoreau's position on the tax or Fred wouldn't have paid it,” Louisa explained. “Speaking of Mr. Thoreau, does he know about Mr. Finch's death?”

The sheriff shrugged. “I doubt it. He was alone in his cell all night and spitting mad this morning as soon as I told him he was free to go.”

“Thank you again, Sheriff Staples.” Louisa opened the door to her father's cell.

Bronson was sitting up, his hand touching a professional-looking bandage tied around his head. “Good morning, Louisa,” he said. His color was poor and Louisa agreed with the doctor that her father needed rest.

“Father, I'm here to bring you home,” she said. “Can you walk?”

He got to his feet, using the wall to brace himself. Louisa took his arm and led him out of the cell.

Back in the lobby, Henry was still furious, demanding to know who had ruined his plans to stage a protest. With a wink at Louisa, the sheriff said, “Mr. Thoreau, did I say the tax was paid by a man?”

“A woman!” Henry suddenly went silent, as if he'd run out of air to complain. As surely as if he had said it aloud, Louisa could see what he was thinking. His expression registered surprise when he saw Bronson, but he had more urgent concerns.

“Father, wait here,” she said quietly. “I need to have a quick word with Henry.” Bronson's eyes were still glassy and he sat on a convenient bench without complaint.

Henry spoke for Louisa's ears only. “Was it Lidian?” Henry said. “She heard I needed help so she paid for me. What an angel. She couldn't know that I wanted to stay in prison.”

“Henry, Finch is dead!” Louisa said, more abruptly than she'd planned, but it was the only way to break through his self-centered musings.

Henry staggered back. “Dead? How?”

“He was shot yesterday. Didn't you wonder why Father was here? And Fred?”

Henry shrugged. “I can't say I thought about it much. I've been planning an essay on civil disobedience.” His blue eyes suddenly darkened with fear. “Did Lidian shoot him?”

“Lidian didn't do it,” Louisa assured him quickly. “She was with me when we heard the gunshot.” He exhaled his relief loudly. “But she was afraid you had.”

“But I've been here, in prison.”

“Lidian didn't know that,” Louisa said.

“Then who paid my fine?” Henry said.

Louisa's mouth made an involuntary irritated noise. “When you are finished worrying about yourself, perhaps you should go to her. You'll relieve her mind,” Louisa suggested.

“I'll go now.” Henry started to leave, then thought better of it and turned back to Louisa. “You should know that I'm
going to break it off between us. Finch may be dead, and heaven knows I won't mourn him, but what happened yesterday has shown me that Lidian is too vulnerable. I can't put her reputation in harm's way.”

“I think that's wise,” Louisa said. “Henry, before you go, can you tell me one thing?”

He nodded warily.

She pulled the wooden horse from her pocket. “Is this the horse you were carving yesterday?” she asked.

The look of relief on his face was almost comical. “How do you have it? I thought I tossed it in the woods.”