Thoreau at Devil's Perch (23 page)

“And I have others of a far less tender character in my private studio,” he said, his lantern chin jutting in the direction of a closed door. “Depictions that include whips and animals and such, if you are so inclined.”

I was not. “These are quite impressive enough,” I said. “Such vivid detail.”

“
Oui
. I am a masterful draftsman. But the quality comes not only from my drawing and etching. It is impossible to convey from plate to paper such exquisite details without a good printing press. I have an excellent press in there.” Again the chin wag toward the closed door. “I brought it with me from France at great expense and trouble. But heavy as it is, it has turned out to be worth its weight in gold.” He boomed out a laugh. “Indeed, it has!”

“Yes, I suppose such . . . explicit art as this fetches a fine price here in Boston.”

“For you, a special price,
mon jeune ami
,” he said. “Which prints would you care to purchase today?”

“I must think about it.”

His heavy face fell. “You will purchase nothing today then?”

“Oh, yes.” I opened my palm to show him the pendant I had been clutching as we talked. “I want to buy this.”

His small eyes lit up with a conspiratorial glint. “For that
demoiselle
you have no plans to marry, eh?
Très bien.
Such a fine gift as this is sure to open her heart and her limbs, and you will soon be enacting some of these very scenes with her.” He pointed to his lascivious depictions.

I felt my face heat and looked down at the pendant. LaFarge's insinuating words should have cast a taint upon it, but the purity of the gold still delighted me. And I still wanted it for Julia. I took out my wallet and asked him how much it was. When he told me, I realized I could not meet his price.

“I am afraid I do not have that amount on my person,” I said.

“Perhaps you do.” He peered at the gold chain on my waistcoat. “If we include your watch in the trade. Take it out, and let me have a look at it.”

“I would prefer to come back with more money if you will only hold the pendant for me.”

He smiled but shook his head. “And I would prefer to be paid for it now. Or I shall sell it to the next person who comes in and wants it.”

I had made up my mind to have the pendant and could not abide the thought of someone else getting it. So I let the jeweler have my timepiece, which I had almost lost to the banker anyway. I could always buy another one for myself, but never another pendant so suited for Julia.

LaFarge examined the watch, nodded, and slipped it in his pocket. When I gave him all the notes I had in my wallet, he examined each one more carefully than he had the watch.

Left the shop with my purchase, looking forward to giving it to Julia this afternoon. But as I strolled through the Common on my way to the station, the number three snagged at my memory again. Suddenly it struck me that three was the number the brothel girl Dora had seen imprinted on Badger's satchel. She had also said it had a big brass lock. Surely it was the same satchel I had seen in LaFarge's back room!

Sat down on a bench by the Frog Pond and puzzled out the rest of it. I had learned during my visit to Vail's office yesterday that he has easy access to the plates his bank uses to print notes. Saw for myself that his clerk brought some back to him direct from the printer's. Later that day Vail's wife informed me that her husband and Peck had formed a business venture together. Could that venture be a counterfeiting operation? It was surely a possibility. Vail had access to bank plates, LaFarge had access to a printing press, and Peck had an acquaintance with both men. So he had brought them together. And used his minion Badger as a courier to transport the plates. But one evening Badger got so drunk that he forgot the old military satchel he carried them in at Mrs. Scudder's brothel. When Caleb came to Plumford to demand money for the satchel, Badger killed him to try and cover up his mistake. But who killed Peck? Most likely it was the mysterious visitor Lt. Finch had spied talking to Peck in the belvedere the evening before he was killed. Was it LaFarge?

Yes! True, I had not seen the Frenchman when I brought medication to Peck. But his association with the captain was a covert one, so it would make sense that LaFarge would keep out of sight. Then Vail came to Plumford and, after overhearing Trump threaten to kill Peck, cooked up a murder scheme with LaFarge to kill Peck themselves. By incriminating Trump, they would be free of all suspicion.

But why did LaFarge and Vail want to do away with Peck, who was the mastermind of their operation? Because he was no longer needed, of course. Why continue to give him a cut of the proceeds when they were the ones carrying out the operation and taking all the risks? That Peck was fornicating with Vail's wife would be another potent reason for the banker to want to get rid of him.

Of course I must somehow prove what is only a series of logical deductions on my part. Without such proof the police will never arrest a respectable banker like Vail. And if he or LaFarge is alerted that they are now under suspicion, they will be sure to conceal all evidence of the counterfeit scheme. Consequently, it is up to me to return to Province Street in the hope that I can find such evidence myself, be it actual plates or false banknotes printed from them in the back room of LaFarge's shop.

 

A
letter from Adam was waiting for me at Daggett's store this afternoon. It was dated Tuesday, and although I have read it at least twenty times, it perplexes me more with each reading.
Dear Kindred Spirit,
he begins. This salutation alone puzzles me. Is he simply referring to our relationship as kin, or does he mean we have like natures? He goes on to write that he is most appreciative of a recovered intimacy with his dearest friend. I shall assume that I am the friend he alludes to, but what means he by intimacy? Our long-standing friendship? Or the intimacy we shared when we kissed? We most certainly never kissed like that as children, so it could hardly be called a
recovered
intimacy. In point of fact, he does not mention the kiss even once in the entire letter. Has he forgotten about it then? Alas, I have not.

He writes that he wants to be open and frank with me and wishes us to share a free and mutual confidence.Yet he continues to keep much from me concerning his investigation of Peck's murder, just as he did in regard to the suspicious death of the young Negro. Indeed, Henry Thoreau is Adam's only confidant in these matters, and if it were not for dear Henry, I would not know what Adam has been up to in Boston. All he tells me in his letter is that he is looking for evidence that would exonerate Trump.

And then, in the very first sentence of the next paragraph, he declares me to be the most perfect and satisfying woman he has ever known! I like this sentence very much. Nevertheless, I cannot help but wonder how many women he has known well enough to compare me with. Perhaps I parse too much. But I cannot help it. Every word in Adam's missive has become indelible in my heart. “Regard me as one with yourself,” he writes. What am I to understand that to
mean?
He goes on to claim that everything in life seems insipid and flat without me, and that he thinks about me wherever he goes and whatever he does (which he continues to keep to himself). After informing me he intends to return to Plumford no later than Thursday, he closes: “I long to be again united with thee.” He then signs himself “Your affectionate cousin.” By thus calling attention to our consanguinity, is he not also calling attention to our ill-fated family history and the impossibility of us ever being truly united?

I cannot conceive of myself as any other man's wife though. Most certainly not Mr. Upson's! I know not what Lyman sees in me, for I see nothing in him. I had hoped he would come to his good senses after we parted yesterday, but apparently he has not. Although he is keeping his promise not to call on me, I believe he left me a present this morning. Henry Thoreau handed it over to me when I opened the front door to his knock.

“Why, thank you very much, Henry,” I said, taking the package he proffered. The brown paper wrapping had my name written on it. I could not help but think Henry was giving me the box of Thoreau pencils he had once offered and I had so foolishly refused.

He hastily disabused me of that happy notion. “The package is not from me, Julia. I found it here on your doorstep.”

I invited him to join my grandfather and me at breakfast, and when we went into the kitchen I placed the package on the table. Grandfather hobbled in and looked rather surprised to see Henry.

“What brings you to Plumford so early?” he inquired.

“My own two feet brought me, sir,” Henry replied in that quietly humorous way of his. “An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.”

“So it is!” Grandfather agreed. “And I hope to be partaking in such walks soon myself. My grandson is of the opinion that I should keep off my broken limb for another week, but I am eager to test it out. Indeed, if Adam doesn't return from Boston today, I will take off these damn splints myself and toss them aside.”

“Adam has not come back yet?” Henry said.

“No, and we have heard nary a word from him,” I replied in an injured tone. (This was before I received Adam's letter.)

A look of concern crossed Henry's countenance. “He must be quite busy.”

“Doing what, pray?”

“He told me he planned to interview the banker Vail and the soldier Finch when we parted the day before yesterday.”

Appreciating Henry's direct response to my question, I asked him another. “And what did the two of you do whilst together in Boston?”

“We went to a waterfront tavern and a brothel.”

This time Henry's directness took me aback. “Well! I suppose you had good reason to visit such places as that.”

“Good or not, men do have their reasons,” Grandfather said, doing his best to sound the worldly old doctor. But he too looked rather astonished.

Henry explained to us that he and Adam had been investigating the veracity of Sgt. Badger's testimony that he was at Shark's Tavern the night Capt. Peck was murdered. This, in turn, led them to Mrs. Scudder's bawdy house, where Badger, they discovered, had spent most of the night. The girls who worked there had confirmed this, disproving Adam's theory that Badger was back in Plumford in time to kill Peck. I was most curious to hear more about these bawdy girls, but Henry was not inclined to discuss them further.

“I came by to inform Adam of the progress I was making on Trump's behalf,” he said. “I am sorry to say it has been slight. My mission is to get him transferred from the Powder House to our jail in Concord, but I have found little support from my fellow townsmen, with the exception of Mr. Emerson. He too is enraged by the way the Indian is being treated and has written a letter of protest to the State's Attorney General. Let us hope it is more influential than the last letter he wrote on behalf of Cherokees to President Van Buren. Meanwhile, Trump remains at risk in the Powder House. Has Rufus Badger made further attempts to incite the men in town to hang the poor Indian?”

“Badger has not shown his face in town since the captain's funeral,” I told Henry. “From what we hear, he and his army pals are having themselves a grand time at Peck's house, drinking up his ample supply of liquor.”

“A drinking party can easily become a lynching party,” Henry said.

It was decided that right after breakfast he would go to the Powder House to see how Trump was faring, although it was doubtful he would be granted an interview with the prisoner. I cut him a big wedge of the apple pie Granny Tuttle had sent over, and as he and Grandfather ate, I turned my attention to the package I had left on the table.

“What is it?” Grandfather asked.

“We shall soon see.” Pulling back the brown wrapping paper, I gasped. “It's a dead bird!”

“Many dead birds,” Henry said, staring bleakly at the contents.

Grandfather craned his neck for a better look. “Why, I see no bird carcasses at all. Merely feathers sewn onto a long strip of cloth.”

I lifted the strip from the wrapping. “It is a pelerine. Narrow capes such as this used to be quite fashionable.”

Henry reached across the table to run his hand lightly over the myriad of feathers arranged on the cloth in triangles and half-moon patterns. They were predominately in shades of brown and white, with accents of blue and red. “Mostly quail and grouse feathers,” he said. “Wrens and warblers too. And bright plumage from bluebirds and cardinals.”

I turned the pelerine over and examined the back. Each feather had been attached to the cotton buckram with coarse stitching. It looked more the handiwork of a man than a woman.

“Drape it over your shoulders, Julia,” my grandfather urged. “Let us see how it suits you.”

“It does not suit me at all. And I shan't put it on.”

“It will please you more in the winter, I warrant,” Grandfather said. “Think of the warmth it will afford you around your neck and bosom, my dear. Why, I would not mind having such a practical adornment myself come December.”

“You may have this one, Grand-dear.”

“I do not think it was intended for the likes of me. Who sent it?”

“There is no card,” I replied, but I was sure it had come from Lyman. I was glad Grandfather knew nothing of his marriage proposal. Losing interest in the pelerine, he went back to eating his piece of pie.

Henry consumed his in short order and refused a second helping. He was anxious to go to the Powder House. He promised he would return with a report of the young Indian's mood and condition if he managed to see him.

But Henry did not return, so he must have been refused a visit. Adam has not returned either. It is well past ten p.m., so I do not expect to see him until the morrow. Pray that I shall!

For now I have his letter to keep me company. And his meerschaum pipe. I removed it from his desk this evening and placed it upon mine. As I write I occasionally take up the pipe and touch the tip of the curved stem to my lips. I imagine Adam's own lips there. I imagine his lips upon mine. This must stop!