Too Soon for Flowers (39 page)

“Except for his face. It did occur to me that he might
have suffered a recent illness. Perhaps even a very serious one. Richard, the dark vomit—”

“Yet he appears to be unaffected by jaundice, if you are trying to tell me it might be the yellow fever. And he would have been ill indeed, in the last stages. I doubt he could have sat on a horse all the way from Boston. Still, it may be wise to post a sign warning others not to enter, since it can be highly contagious … especially, now that I come to think of it, in August and September. I believe I will make my sketch quickly and close the place up. When I send off my handiwork, I will enclose a request for Warren to come to us. It will give him a healthy ride. Now, where has Lahte got to? There he is, over by the Proctors. Shall we go and take him home? I suspect he, too, is not entirely well, though melancholy may be his own particular ill today.”

As they walked to join Signore Lahte, they saw that his good humor had evidently returned. This was fortunate, thought Longfellow, who also saw that the Reverend Rowe approached them on the main road. “Gian Carlo,” he called over the quiet stones. “Are you sufficiently recovered to meet what passes in Massachusetts for a holy man?”

“I will be delighted,” the
musico
answered, coming forward with a confident stride.

“I doubt that!” said Longfellow with some certainty. “But we shall see.”

“YOU ARE A
Roman Catholic,
signore?”
asked the thin man, clothed in his usual ill-fitting suit of black broadcloth. Christian Rowe said the foreign word with distaste, after receiving what he suspected was a sinfully excessive bow.

“I was raised in the Church, certainly, good Father. But I dispute the laws of Rome, and I repent of my part in its superstitious ceremonies.”

“Oh?” answered Rowe, brightening a little as he readjusted
his stiff hat over a halo of golden hair. “Then am I to presume you are now a Protestant?”

“I protest much in this life, Father, and pray that you will take me into your flock. Like a poor sheep, I look for guidance. And you see I have heard of your wisdom even in Boston before coming here.”

“Really!” the reverend responded, rising on his toes. He gave a fond thought to several slim copies of his sermons, printed the previous winter and left in a King Street shop. Perhaps not all of them had languished, after all. “That is gratifying,” Reverend Rowe allowed, giving the gentleman before him a faint smile. “Although as I am a minister, rather than a popish priest, I should be addressed as ‘Reverend.’ Or simply ‘sir.’ And we do not think of men here as sheep—nor do we see their spiritual leaders as all-powerful. Yet ministers
are
well respected for their wisdom and learning in this place. You do realize,” Rowe went on with sudden suspicion, “there is no question of a Roman mass ever being said here in Massachusetts?”

“But of course, reverend sir! Who would dare to pollute such … such a grave and pure place?”

This time Rowe answered with a look of beatific mildness. But as another slight movement drew his attention, his expression changed once more.

“Madam,
have you, too
, examined this man’s body?”

“I have looked at his face, Reverend. Since no one yet knows him, I thought it my duty.”

“Duty! Something one hardly expects to hear from you, Mrs. Willett!”

Longfellow caught the preacher’s eye, then gazed pointedly at the new slate roof of the stone manse behind them, which was a recent and expensive gift.

“But you are correct,” Christian Rowe continued more cautiously, “in suggesting it is the duty of all to help our fellow creatures. Quite correct. Someone, somewhere,
must be searching for this unfortunate, whose death, I am told, was an accident?” His challenging stare relaxed only when the preacher was sure he would receive no more unpleasant news from those who stood before him.

“Then I believe we are all agreed,” Longfellow concluded, rubbing his hands. “It will be quite unnecessary for you to take more than the briefest look at the body, Reverend. I have some fear of possible contagion, as it is the height of summer, so rather than ask you to prepare him for burial I shall call for a physician, at the town’s expense, who may do so. I plan to take the likeness of the corpse myself, so that they might ask in town who he was, for it seems he came here by way of the Boston road. Town House might hear a complaint that the man is missing, as you say. If not, there will be plenty of lodging houses to examine.”

“Your friend Captain Montagu might be of some use in that.”

“So he might! What a good idea, Reverend. I’ll be sure to let him know you thought of it. Now we must be off, but I will return shortly with paper and pencil.”

As the minister walked back to his parsonage, Richard Longfellow and his friends began to climb the long hill that rose to the east of the village. “A nice piece of flattery,” he soon commented to Signore Lahte, who replied with a dubious smile.

“I have had much practice, in the service of others.”

“You did warn us of your dramatic accomplishments. Here, however, they may be viewed as the mark of a wastrel and a truth-slayer if you are found out.”

“Ah, yes. If …” Lahte returned.

“I will be busy for a while. Settle yourself in my house with Cicero’s help, and enjoy a siesta. I hope tonight you will delight us with more of your voice and show us your skill at the pianoforte. After that, perhaps we might take a closer look at the sky.”

“The sky?”

“The telescope,” Charlotte informed him, “is one of Mr. Longfellow’s favorite hobbyhorses.”

“And a far-reaching breed, capable of allowing us to fly into the astral realms—much like your splendid arias.”

“Oh, yes,”
Il Colombo
replied with a weariness that Mrs. Willett noted with increased sympathy. She had already wondered at Lahte’s apparent desire to ingratiate himself with the Reverend Rowe. Now she asked herself if he felt he must pay for his supper and for the company of others. And might the man not tire of being eternally reminded of the singular difference that set him apart from the rest of his gender? These questions were soon joined in her mind by several others, as the trio moved quietly through the afternoon heat. Like small feathers, such unanswered questions had a way of tickling one that did not always turn out to be entirely pleasant.