Too Soon for Flowers (20 page)

“Nothing else?”

David Pelham looked carefully at Longfellow, seeming to weigh something in his mind. Then he answered quite firmly, his face becoming smooth again.

“Nothing else.”

“I suppose there is little doubt.” Longfellow sighed deeply, considering human frailty for a moment before returning to his duty. “Phineas, how is your other investigation proceeding?”

It was Reverend Rowe who answered. “As well as can be expected, when few will admit to knowing or seeing anything at all. At least to us—yet they break off talking of it among themselves as soon as we appear!”

“Thus far,” the constable went on, “we have been unable to discover if the girl had another lover, or that Will Sloan had any desire to abandon his wedding plans. His mother will say little—but it seems the girl’s time is well accounted for, and she received no letters, apart from those that came from her own family.”

“But something here is not right,” the reverend insisted. “I believe there is still strong reason to suspect evil in our midst.” He then gave a terrific start, and his head ducked under the table; in a moment, his shout sent a spitting cat flying. More than one set of eyes was averted as Reverend Rowe rose up, glaring.

“As to Will Sloan,” said Longfellow mildly, “I’ve now sent queries to Worcester and Concord. Thus far I’ve heard nothing. I suspect Boston would be too big a jump for the lad—at any rate, with the state the town’s in, few
would have noticed him there. It is a shame, Reverend, that you’ve received little for your trouble here, though I find it hardly surprising.”

Jonathan Pratt quickly added his own thoughts. “I do not see the point of explaining my whereabouts every hour of the evening, from dusk to dawn—which we only
suppose
to be the time something might have been done to Miss Morris. I wonder, Reverend, if you would answer such questions
yourself
, another time? No, I thought as much.”

“I expect to keep at least some things my own business, as well,” said David Pelham.

“Yet Mr. Pelham has given us his oath,” said the constable, “and has sworn that he remained in his room all the evening, reading an improving book with a bottle of Madeira for company. If I’m not mistaken,” he added, his face showing a Yankee’s pain at a profit lost, “here is more of the same.”

Cicero came in with a tray that held two bottles and a half-dozen glasses, one of which he filled and took across the room to Mrs. Willett.

“As for last evening, Mr. Pelham,” Reverend Rowe asked, obviously hoping to add to his meager arsenal of blame, “where were you then?”

“Last night? I recall that I had a supper of oysters and ale; then I sang lustily with a handful of others in Mr. Pratt’s taproom, to counter the thunder, until well after the storm broke. The old fellow must have been dead then, for I cannot see a physician risking his health by walking out into the pouring rain, even to shoot himself.”

It seemed to Richard Longfellow that Mr. Pelham was somewhat deficient in feeling, so odd was the latter’s mood, given their grim discussion. He seemed to go from sense to rattle with little warning—one of the many annoying symptoms of courtship. Ah, well. Considering what
Diana had done to her other suitors, Pelham would soon become sober again. “Just where does this leave us?” he turned to ask Phineas Wise.

“In my official capacity,” said the constable, “given what you have told of finding the body and the weapon, I believe Dr. Tucker to be a suicide. Doubtless his action stemmed from melancholy, due to the unfortunate death of the young woman in his care. I would add that I believe the death of Miss Morris to be the result of natural causes, influenced by the inoculation, perhaps, but also by the delicate nature of many a female constitution. I suppose the village will see it that way—and that they will accept our verdict in both cases, if the selectmen concur. This should make an appeal to the Middlesex authorities unnecessary. But, we should wait a little for Will to show up, I think, before we tell the world our conclusions. Just in case we’re all wrong,” he added under his breath.

“I agree it’s what the village would prefer to think,” said Longfellow. “And most of us would rather not bother the sheriff in Cambridge! If we have reason to suspect anything more after Will’s return, then we might still take the matter to a justice of the peace. But I doubt it will come to that.”

There was a chorus of relieved approval. “Unless, of course,” Captain Montagu suddenly suggested, “there is one among you who will press for further action, for his own reasons.”

“Who? Who would do such a thing?” Phineas Wise looked about with alarm.

“Last autumn, I watched as one of you rallied the village to threaten the life of an innocent man, while asking others to imagine the worst of one of the gentlest among you. Did you not, sir?” Montagu concluded, pointing a finger across the table at Reverend Christian Rowe.

There were gasps at the audacity of the remark, for Reverend Rowe, as a representative of the church, enjoyed a position of moral leadership even among those
who often found his words distasteful. But the preacher replied with a smile that was politeness itself.

“I was glad to admit my error,” he owned easily. “But we are all under the eye of the Lord. And none should fear honest inquiry on His behalf. Such inquiry is never a personal matter, for I am sure we are all friends here, and fellows in God. In the same spirit, however, I might remark that once again we find Mrs. Willett and Mr. Longfellow involved in a most peculiar death—this time, while they both reside under one roof. As I have said before, that fact has already aroused the suspicion of others … but I will keep an open mind, and say no more.”

In the silence that followed, Constable Wise blew his nose loudly on a not too clean piece of linen, which he then stuffed back into his breeches. “For now, then, we’re in accord,” he told Longfellow. “The week’s events are tragic, but they require no charges. However, we have one more problem that needs solving. Who will be responsible for Dr. Tucker’s body?”

“A suicide cannot be laid to rest in the churchyard,” Rowe stated flatly.

“Then,” said Longfellow, “as I brought him here to Bracebridge, I’ll take the responsibility. I shall send word to his household this afternoon, though I doubt it will do much good. For the moment, Tucker can stay where he is.”

After addressing a few more details over another fortifying glass, the men rose to their feet. Longfellow moved to Mrs. Willett, bottle in hand, and sat down beside her on the sofa. “I’ve been asking myself,” she began, after accepting a second glass, “who will see to Lem and Diana, now that Dr. Tucker is gone.”

“Thankful Marlowe at the Three Crows once recommended a Worcester man. But I suspect we can do as well ourselves.”

“Richard, do you suppose people
are
talking … about the two of us?”

“People are always looking for something to worry them, Carlotta. But we might discuss that thrilling possibility tomorrow, at our leisure—for Rowe has ordered my entire household to stay away from Sunday meeting until we lift the quarantine. Remind me, too, that I should discuss village etiquette with Captain Montagu. Now, I shall go and break the news of Tucker’s death to Diana. I’m sure Edmund will want to join me. But I’d better show my other guests out, first—or they might decide to take a tour of our bedchambers, and stay to dinner!”

There was little point or reason, Charlotte told herself, to argue with the conclusions she had overheard. And yet, every man present had neglected several muddy questions. Exploring them further herself, she decided, might allow her mind to rest more easily. And then there was the question of Phoebe’s final rest, as well….

Warmed and fortified by the wine, Mrs. Willett went forward to gather what she could. She had no notion of where her inquiries would lead. But at least she had an idea of where they might begin.

C
HARLOTTE RETREATED FROM
the bustle of the hall and climbed to the second story of Richard Longfellow’s house, where four bedrooms stood in a row. Here, she usually went left toward her own chamber, just before Cicero’s at one end. But this time she stopped, reconsidered, and turned the other way.

Longfellow’s was the last room of the east corridor; she knew it had the advantage of the morning light. The nearer of the two, next to her own, was usually given to Diana on her visits, though lately it had been the temporary home of Dr. Tucker. She turned the brass knob and walked in. The bed still had its coverlet in place, over a freshly mounded featherbed. There was a large trap standing open on a chair; at the foot of a bedside table stood another bag she’d seen before, which held medical supplies and instruments. On the table itself, she saw a red
volume—a recent publication on wildlife in the southern colonies.

After studying a startling engraving of a leaping panther, Charlotte put the book back by the oil lamp. Then she attacked the larger of the two leather cases. It revealed only stockings and shirts, another coat, and a pair of satin breeches. But she soon discovered something of far more interest in the drawer of a writing desk that stood against a wall, across from the four-poster. In a dimpled pigskin wallet she found four letters, each one dated months before. All were from Williamsburg, and written by someone named Jeanette, apparently a charming young woman with a wealth of family anecdotes. In a few moments, Charlotte realized that Dr. Tucker had been Jeanette’s father.

The girl gave information of a brother at sea, and a smaller sister still at home. It seemed both girls, as well as their mother, lived with friends, rather than in an establishment of their own. A final letter dated the previous autumn was especially affecting, as it foresaw her father’s return.

Charlotte refolded the letter and sat down to think. What, exactly, had Dr. Tucker done, that forced him to abandon his family and seek a new practice in Boston? Was it something to do with his medical treatments? Then again, it may have been something more personal. It could have had something to do with the physician’s fondness for the bottle; she’d begun to suspect he often drank far beyond good sense. Perhaps it was gambling. She had heard this was a pastime often practiced to extremes, with sad results, south of New England. Clearly, whether he was at fault or not, Dr. Tucker had felt his situation deeply. Still, his hopes were high when he arrived. Perhaps that was because he had a new chance to attract clients, and believed
his life would soon improve, and his family be reunited with him. Had something occurred to end those hopes before his plan had a chance to succeed? His own death must have had something to do with the death of Phoebe Morris. But what? It seemed his daughter did not believe him capable of any serious error. But of course the whole truth might have been kept from her, for good reason.