Cradle to Grave (25 page)

“Reverend Vermette may be as poor as a church mouse now but he has a shining future,” Cooper said. “Why would he take on a woman with four children by different fathers? Maggie had nothing to offer him.”

“She was a beautiful girl,” Rees said. “I'm not saying Vermette intended marriage. In fact, he had good reason to want her gone, if she pressed him.”

“Reverend Vermette is a pastor,” Cooper interrupted. “I never heard any scandal about him.” The constable leveled his finger at Rees. “You'd better stop barking up the wrong tree. First Silas Tucker and now Reverend Vermette. I see a desperate man putting his own self in danger.”

“I can't believe you would suspect Sister Hannah,” Rees began. His words trailed away as he regarded Cooper in dawning comprehension. “The selectmen want
me
to be guilty, don't they?” Cooper could not meet Rees's gaze. “I see. But even if I murdered Tucker, somehow making it back from Albany to do so, I had no reason to hurt Maggie. And I am persuaded the two deaths are related.”

“You don't know that.”

But the faintness of his protest told Rees Cooper thought exactly the same. “Most certainly I do. Two people connected to this farm, and in this small community—of course the deaths are related.”

“Now that Silas has been murdered, interest in Maggie has evaporated,” Cooper said. “You know what people say about her? That she's a whore. Some of our leading citizens say good riddance. All attention is focused upon her uncle, the good businessman.” Cooper made an indefinable sound in his throat.

“That poor young woman,” Rees said. “Maggie must have felt so alone.”

Cooper nodded. “Indeed. No one cares about Maggie. Except me. I want
her
murderer found.”

“What was your relationship with Maggie Whitney?” Given an opening, Rees jumped in with the question.

Cooper smiled. “When we were children we talked of marriage. She was the prettiest girl … But at fifteen she married Roger Whitney and left for Boston. I daresay he could offer her more than I could. And then I wed Genevieve Shaw.”

Rees thought Cooper's reply a little too quick and too rehearsed. “What about after Maggie's return from Boston?”

“I was still married. And when I was assigned to keep an eye on her for the town fathers…” He spread his hands wide in resignation. “She barely speaks … She barely spoke to me after that.” His mouth twitched and he jumped to his feet and faced the window. When Cooper recovered his composure and turned back, his eyes still glittered with moisture.

Rees didn't know what to say. Cooper's grief, at least, was genuine. “Any ideas about Silas's murderer?”

“Not one.” Cooper sighed. “He fought with just about everyone. No one stands out.” Wiping his eyes with his handkerchief he reclaimed his seat. “And just about all of his adversaries were here, in Dover Springs, under the eyes of their fellows or at home with their families.”

Rees grunted. He knew no one would tell him anything; he was the outsider. “If I identify Maggie's murderer,” he said, “I promise you he'll lead me to the man who shot Silas Tucker.”

“Good fortune,” Cooper said, adding bitterly, “Mr. Demming wants me to concentrate upon Silas.”

Rees started for the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Was Maggie's cloak ever found?”

Cooper shook his head. “Not yet. We've searched all the land around the church, across the road, everywhere I can think of. No cloak.”

“Hmmm,” Rees said. What had happened to that garment? “The murderer attacked her somewhere else. He must have.”

“But where? And how did he bring her to the cemetery? We didn't see any wagon tracks,” Cooper objected.

“I don't know. But I'll find out, I promise you that,” Rees said with determination.

Cooper rose to his feet and clapped Rees on the shoulder. “My mouth is dry after all this chatter. Let's go to the Ram's Head for a drink.”

Rees agreed and they walked up the slope together.

Since it was Saturday, the common room was thronged with customers. The hubbub caused by many conversations could be heard outside the door and was almost deafening inside. Cooper found two empty seats at Demming's table. Rees almost elected to leave then; he disliked the selectman and did not want to spend time in his company. But once Cooper had sat down and Demming had seen Rees, it was too late to make a graceful exit. As he sat down, Demming turned his eyes toward him but made no other acknowledgment.

Mr. Randall's daughter and another young girl were running around the room, serving whiskey. Rees declined whiskey and asked for ale. When no one returned, Cooper muttered an epithet and rose from the table to collar one of the servers. Rees found himself alone with Demming.

“Why did you dislike Maggie Whitney?” he asked, the words sliding out of his mouth before he knew he was going to speak.

Demming turned to look at him, startled. “How can you ask that? You saw how she lived. Four children from different fathers. Always just one step removed from requiring Poor Relief. If we had been generous, she and her children—and who knows how many she would have had—would have been a drain on the town for years to come.”

“But she was born here, wasn't she?” Rees asked.

“To a mother who promptly abandoned her and returned to her own home. If I knew where that was, Maggie and her brats would have been sent away years ago.” He paused, taking a deep draft of his whiskey. “We have a nice town here. Peaceful. Pleasant. Well regulated. Women like Maggie would take advantage.”

So many arguments occurred to Rees that he couldn't decide which to begin with. Christian charity alone would seem a forceful answer, especially to a churchgoer like Demming, but as Rees opened his mouth, Cooper returned with a flagon of ale in his hand. As Rees extended his thanks to the constable, Demming drained his glass and reeled from the room. He apparently had no wish to continue the conversation.

Mr. Randall paused by the table. “Did you learn anything of import from my friend Elias Gray?” he asked. Rees shook his head.

Mr. Randall sighed. “He has gotten very deaf, my old friend. And quite frail. He used to come to the inn every day. We played draughts for hours.”

“He made it through the winter,” Cooper said.

“Thank the Lord,” Mr. Randall said fervently. “I doubt I will ever recover from losing Phinney. I don't want to lose Elias, too. That's old age; it takes everything you love.”

Rees and Cooper looked at one another, neither one knowing quite what to say. Rees drained his ale and bade both gentlemen good-bye.

*   *   *

Rees paused by the cabin to collect Lydia and then continued on to the Baker farm. When they pulled in, no one came out to greet them save a skinny mutt who shied from Rees's foot. Exchanging anxious glances, they jumped down from the buggy. It was now just after noon; the yard should have been noisy with hands finishing up morning chores in preparation for dinner. As Lydia went to the front door Rees turned to the barn. He heard persistent ragged coughing before he jerked the door open and stepped into the hay- and cow-scented interior. He did not at first see Simon, only the Bakers' daughter milking with her back to the door. She glanced at Rees but did not pause. Simon was in the next stall, forking hay to the front for all he was worth. Rees followed the coughing to the rear, and found Mr. Baker, collapsed against the cow's flank.

“You aren't taking the boy, are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse and thick. “I need him. Everyone's down with this damn fever.”

Rees examined the other man's face. Dark shadows ringed Mr. Baker's eyes and, despite the cold, his forehead was slick with sweat. Mr. Baker should be in bed, too, but Rees did not say that. The livestock had to be cared for, no matter what.

“Don't worry,” he said, grabbing a pail and heading into the next stall.

Only a few of the cows were producing, and their milk was scanty, so they completed the milking quickly. Rees shouldered Simon aside and finished throwing down the hay. Then he helped Mr. Baker to the house, the two children at their heels, and into the warm kitchen. Mrs. Baker was coughing but on her feet. She came forward and grasped her husband's arm. Lydia glanced at Rees and went back to stirring the soup bubbling on the fire.

“Thanks … Thank you.” Coughing punctuated Mr. Baker's words.

“Don't talk,” Rees said, helping the other man into a seat at the table. “How long have you all been sick?” he asked Mrs. Baker.

“My oldest son came down with it about one week ago. Simon recovered the most rapidly,” she added, smiling at the boy. “I don't know what we would have done without him. Everyone else has been bedridden for days.” She suddenly pressed one hand to her back and the other to her forehead. Rees urged her into a seat by her husband.

Lydia filled two bowls of soup and placed them in front of Mr. and Mrs. Baker. “Eat something,” she said. “You'll feel better.”

As Mr. Baker coughed fitfully, one of the boys plodded into the kitchen. His white face protruded from the top of a thick blanket, wrapped around him as a shawl. Lydia filled a bowl for him as well. He sat down and dragged the spoon up to his mouth as though it weighed a hundred pounds.

“We'll take Simon home now,” Rees said, looking at Mr. and Mrs. Baker in turn. Mr. Baker frowned in dismay.

“But he'll return tomorrow?” he said, coughing. “I need him.”

“Tomorrow, for a little while,” Rees said. “He was just recently ill himself. I don't want him relapsing.”

“Mr. Baker is counting on me,” Simon shouted. “They need me here.” He began coughing.

“See?” Lydia said, putting one hand on the nape of his neck and pressing his head down. “Shouting makes you cough. Breathe quietly.” She held him there for a moment until his coughing eased.

“In future,” Rees said, “I don't want him to work all day. Even if there is an emergency. And I want him paid in cash money.” Mr. Baker eyed Rees, clearly considering the advisability of an argument. Rees stared him down.

“Morning and evening milking, as before,” Mr. Baker said, surrendering without a fight. “And we'll give him breakfast.”

Rees looked down into Simon's face. Simon nodded, his expression anxious. With a sigh, Rees said, “All right. But he comes home in between and also as soon as the evening milking is finished.”

He and Mr. Baker dickered over the pay and settled on three pennies for the week. “But you're taking advantage of a sick man,” Mr. Baker said.

Rees just stopped himself from snorting. “Maybe you won't need Simon quite so much when your boys feel better.”

“They are recovering,” he said, looking at the boy eating soup.

“Soon you'll be getting back in trouble at the log church with your friends,” Rees said to him. He delivered his message in a jocular tone but the boy understood it nonetheless and he dropped his spoon with a clatter.

“It has been several months since I visited that church,” he said. “Not since the Reverend spoke to my father and he told me never to go there again.”

“Neither he nor his brother could sit down for a week,” Mrs. Baker put in.

“We saw a burned patch on the floor, in the front lobby,” Rees said. “Reverend Vermette said he had to sweep out ashes.”

“Well, I had nothing to do with that.”

“Maybe your friends?” Lydia suggested.

“They live even farther out from town than we do. I doubt they've had a chance to come out this way since the snow started.” He lowered his eyes sulkily.

Rees said, “I hope you and your brother were not involved in the gang terrorizing Mount Unity.” A tide of scarlet swept up into the boy's cheeks.

“I had better not hear you were,” Mr. Baker said, fierce despite his hoarseness. “The constable will whip you and then I'll whip you. Those people may be different but they're good neighbors.”

“No. I was already sick,” the boy said, sounding slightly sullen.

Mr. Baker directed a stern look at his son. “You knew about it and didn't say?” he shouted. His son stared down at his plate. “I don't want anyone coming to me about you boys,” Mr. Baker said. “And if I find out you were drinking and smoking in the meetinghouse again…”

“We weren't. Anyway,” the boy added, “we always went upstairs in the church. More private. The Reverend never locks the door, so anyone could go in.”

Although the lad spoke with vehement earnestness, Rees regarded him doubtfully. He was probably fifteen or sixteen, itching to break free of his parents, like his friends, eager to raise some hell. And the church was within walking distance. But Rees didn't prolong the argument. Instead he asked after the health of those who'd been ill with the fever, and after Mrs. Baker pronounced them all on the road to recovery, he turned and looked at Lydia.

“Please call upon me again,” Mrs. Baker said, coughing intermittently. “We will have a proper visit when I've recovered my health.”

“Of course,” Lydia said, putting on her cloak. “I hope everyone feels better soon.”

Very conscious of Simon's listening ears, Rees did not ask any questions. They turned onto the main road, the buggy wheels slipping across the ice. The weight in the buggy kept the vehicle grounded but Rees pulled gently on the reins, slowing Ares even further. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Simon had fallen asleep. His lashes shadowed his cheeks and he looked very young and very tired. Rees regretted the agreement he'd made with Mr. Baker, but he knew Simon wouldn't allow him to renege.

“I'm glad you weren't there to listen to Mrs. Baker,” Lydia said. “She really did not like Maggie.”

“Did Mr. Baker demonstrate some attraction to the girl?” Rees asked.

Lydia was silent a moment, thinking. “Perhaps. I rather got the impression he was partial to Maggie, despite their age difference, before he married Mrs. Baker. Of course, she married Mr. Whitney and left town, but Mrs. Baker hasn't forgotten.”