Death in Salem (16 page)

“And I wonder if that was the same sailor who warned me out of Salem.” Although he had purposely minimized the attack upon him, Lydia looked at him in horror. But she had no opportunity to scold him.

“Fire!” A boy suddenly plunged through the tavern door. “Hurry. Fire on Turner Street.” He darted out, running to spread the news.

A second's pause, as the tavern customers grasped the boy's warning, and then almost in unison, everyone rose to their feet. In Salem, with its wooden buildings—houses and warehouses both, and all the ships—the threat of fire called everyone to the bucket brigade.

Rees jumped up, a horrible premonition blooming in his mind. He'd taken several steps when he remembered Lydia and turned around. But she was right behind him. She smiled and shooed him forward. Rees took her hand and they joined the crowd running northeast.

A smoky black smudge was immediately visible in the sky, and the smell of burning tainted the air. Rees soon realized that he and Lydia would not be able to get very close to the house, not yet anyway. There were too many people. “Oh no,” Rees said as he and Lydia joined the crowd on the other side of the street. Lydia looked up at him. “It's Mrs. Foster's house.” A hollow ache formed in his gut. “Oh no.”

Rees was tall enough to look over most of the heads, and he could see at least three lines of people sending buckets up to the flames. Two approached the house from Essex, one from Turner. Rees pictured the layout of the rooms; the fire must have begun in the parlor. Every now and then, someone would step out of the waiting throng and replace one of the weary men. Rees pushed his way forward, prepared to do his part. But, by the time he reached the front, the flames were extinguished.

The acrid stench of wet ash filled the air. The brigade began to disperse, although a few men approached the house to inspect the blackened wall. In three long strides, Rees reached the front yard. He grabbed one of the men who'd been passing buckets on the brigade. A long black streak went up the side of his face, and he was flushed and sweating with the recent effort. “What happened?” Rees asked him. The man shrugged.

“Someone saw flames coming out of the window,” he said, looking behind him as though that person would appear.

“Two women live inside,” Rees said. “Has anyone seen them?” And when the man shrugged again, Rees grabbed the front of his linen shirt and shook him. “Has anyone seen them?”

“No. No one came out.” He wiped his sooty hand across his face. “And you'd better not go inside. Deputy Sheriff Swett gets angry if he isn't first.”

Releasing the man so abruptly that he staggered, Rees turned and ran up the porch steps, Lydia close behind. “Stay here,” he told her. “It's too dangerous for you to go inside.” He touched her shoulder gently and hurried into the house. The fire had not reached the front hall, although the air stank of smoke, and when Rees looked left he understood why. Someone had closed the door to the parlor. He thrust it open.

He saw immediately how the fire had begun; a candleholder had fallen off the harpsichord to the floor. Although the candle had guttered out in a pool of melted wax, the flame had caught fire to the carpet. Rees stared at the blistered legs of the harpsichord and the long burnt trail leading from the candlestick to the window. Glowing dots marked live embers. God only knew how long the fire had smoldered in the rug until it reached the window. Once the sparks reached the curtains, the fire had begun in earnest, pouring through the open window and growing into a monster.

Rees saw that in only a few seconds, and then the body lying sprawled upon the floor by the harpsichord bench captured his complete attention. He couldn't see the face, but the soft pale pink gown and the rose necklace identified the woman as Isabella Porter.

“Let's take her outside,” Lydia said, a cough punctuating her words.

“Lydia,” Rees said reproachfully, as he scooped up the body and followed his wife outside.

He carried her to the edge of the small yard and laid her upon the ground. No attention had been paid to this corner of the yard, and daisies and pokeberries surrounded the body.

“Is it Mrs. Foster?” Lydia asked, her voice shaking.

“I don't think so,” Rees said, kneeling by the supine form. He gently turned the body over so that he might stare into the face.

Isabella Porter's eyes were closed. The fire had not touched her and, although her face was bloodless, her expression was peaceful. But she was quite dead.

“Look at her throat,” Lydia said, pointing. A broad red welt circled her neck. “Did you see anything that would do that?”

Rees thought back. “No. I saw nothing. The killer must have taken whatever it was with him.”

“A scarf, I would suppose,” Lydia said. “Or a thin shawl.”

“And where is Mrs. Foster now? Is that Mrs. Foster?” Deputy Sheriff Swett's voice grew louder as he approached. Rees stood up and backed away, drawing Lydia with him. Swett ignored them both.

“No,” said a boy as he shouldered his way through the men gathering around the deputy. “That's…”

“I wasn't talking to you, boy,” said Swett. “Go home to your mother.” He knelt over the body as though peering into her face. When he rose to his feet, her necklace was no longer around her throat.

Had Swett robbed the body? Rees stared at the deputy in disgust.

“But that's…” The dirty youth tried again. At a nod from Swett, one of the men pushed the boy away so hard he fell. Rees took Lydia's arm and pulled her away from the body. But instead of heading for the street, he went to the boy and offered him a hand up. The boy ignored it and scrambled to his feet without help.

“Did you see something?” Rees asked.

“And why should I tell you?” He brushed the dirt from his tattered pants. Rees eyed the child. He couldn't be more than ten. Despite the grime covering his face and hands like a second skin and the shabby clothing, he wore a cheerful red neckerchief.

“Because I'll give you a penny.”

“Two,” the boy said promptly.

“You would have told that fop Swett for nothing,” Lydia said, frowning at him.

“Yeah. And he might have paid me to keep my eyes and ears open in the future. You won't.”

“Very well,” Rees said. “Two. What's your name?”

“Al.”

“I'm Rees. I already know that,” he gestured at the still form lying on the ground, “is Miss Porter. What else do you have?”

“I didn't like her much. Now Mrs. Foster, she always gave me something for my trouble. At least a farthing or two for running a message or sweeping her walk.”

“Where is Mrs. Foster?”

“Don't know. “The boy answered too quickly.

Rees ruminated for a moment. This child knew something else; Rees was sure of it. “What else did you see?” Al hesitated. “Tell me now, Al.”

“She had a caller a bit before the fire started. A woman. Dark gray dress and shawl. And she wore a big hat.” Rees and Lydia exchanged a glance.

“How big?” Lydia asked.

His hands opened wide. Rees could not believe any woman, no matter how fashionable, would wear a hat that large unless she intended to hide her identity.

“Of course, you couldn't see her face,” Rees said.

“Nah,” the boy agreed with a grimace. “Now, that would've been worth some money. Right? If I could've described her. Right?”

“Did you see how long this woman remained inside with Miss Porter?” Lydia asked.

“Not long,” Al replied. Rees guessed that that meant anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour.

“But you did see her leave?” he asked.

Al nodded. “She came out in a hurry,” he said.

“Walking?'

“Walking,” Al confirmed. “But very fast.” An expression of surprise crossed his face. “Almost running.”

Except for the hat, the woman in question sounded like Georgianne Foster. She was the only woman Rees had seen so far in Salem wearing gray. But surely she would not have wanted to kill her cousin. Besides, why would she approach her own house as though she were a visitor? An answer to his own question immediately popped into Rees's mind: because she wanted any witness to believe her a stranger.

No, he didn't want to believe she had killed her cousin. Surely, it made more sense to assume that Miss Porter's death was connected in some way to the murder of Jacob Boothe. And, in that case, Rees considered another question: was Isabella Porter murdered by someone who thought she was Georgianne Foster? After all, they bore a superficial resemblance to one another. He did not realize he'd spoken aloud until he saw Lydia staring at him.

“If this isn't Mrs. Foster,” she said, “then does Mrs. Foster know about this yet?” She looked at the faces in the crowd, as though she might recognize Georgianne Foster from Rees's description.

“I don't know, but it's imperative we find her. If Mrs. Foster was the intended victim, and her cousin was murdered by mistake, then Georgianne Foster is still in danger.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

It was late afternoon by the time Lydia and Rees reached Mrs. Baldwin's house. The journey home had taken far longer than the earlier mad run, which had appeared to take no time at all, to Turner Street. The events of the day had tired both Rees and Lydia and now, with fatigue dragging at her feet, she walked more and more slowly. Rees offered her an arm, but his shirtsleeves stank of fire. Lydia shook her head in refusal.

Mrs. Baldwin came out of the door as they entered the stable yard. “I've been watching for you,” she said, her nose wrinkling as she inhaled the odor of smoke and wet ash. “I heard there was a fire.”

“Unfortunately, a woman lost her life,” Rees said. He wiped his arm across his forehead and looked at the black streak on his sleeve in dismay.

Mrs. Baldwin grimaced and said in regret, “Oh dear. I'm sorry to hear that.” She examined Rees and then Lydia. “I'll put water on to heat, Mr. Rees. You'll want a bath, I think. And you, Mrs. Rees, look as though you could use a rest.”

“Yes. And a change of clothing.”

“While you're bathing and changing clothes, I'll start supper.” Mrs. Baldwin put her arm around Lydia's shoulder and urged her to the house. “You shouldn't be out running around, not in your condition.”

“I am a little tired,” Lydia admitted. Rees glanced at her in alarm. Usually Lydia refused such offers of assistance. She must be worn out to so graciously accept Mrs. Baldwin's.

“Is Billy home yet?” Rees asked. With Isabella's murder, his enquiry had taken on a desperate pressure. He didn't want to feel guilty about another death.

“In the barn,” Mrs. Baldwin said.

“You go on inside,” Rees said to Lydia. He pressed her shoulder, trying to convey his love and concern through that one touch. She smiled at him.

“I believe I will lie down for a few minutes,” she said. He watched her go to the house, caught within the protective circle of Mrs. Baldwin's arm. Then Rees turned to the barn.

Billy had slipped the bridle over Bessie's head and was preparing to walk her around the yard. Rees's quick glance at the stalls assured him that the boy had already fed and watered both horses. “Thought I'd give her some exercise,” he said. “She's been inside all day.”

“So have you,” Rees said, following the horse and boy outside. Bessie shuddered and jumped with excitement. Rees sighed; Bessie was not settling. Billy began talking to her, his voice low and soothing. “Listen,” Rees said, turning his attention to the boy. “I saw someone I want to speak with. I wondered if you knew his name. He looks like a pirate: dark hair, gold earring…”

Billy responded immediately. “That sounds like Philippe Benoit.”

“What do you know about him?”

Billy paused and Bessie halted as well. “There's some mystery there,” he said. “He worked on a whaler for awhile and then switched to a merchantman, one of the Boothe ships, I think. Hard to know. I heard that most of the crew was Irish, French, and Portuguese.”

Of course Benoit worked on a Boothe ship, Rees thought, recalling his glimpse of Matthew Boothe in the Witch's Cauldron tavern. “But Mr. Benoit is back in Salem?” Rees was beginning to respect the depth of Billy's knowledge. Here was a boy who kept his eyes and ears open.

“I believe so.
The India Princess
returned from the East about two weeks ago.” He hesitated briefly, his smooth forehead crinkled with thought.

“What?” Rees demanded.

“Something strange about the ship Benoit captained,” Billy said. “What was it? Was it sold to the Boothe family? I can't remember.”

“If you do, please let me know,” Rees said. Tomorrow he and Lydia would pay a call upon the Boothe family, and Rees would press Matthew. That young man had some explaining to do. “And thank you.”

He turned and, pondering the youngest Boothe boy and his secret activities, he went into the house.

Mrs. Baldwin had carried up several buckets of boiling water, which she had emptied into a large metal tub. As Rees bounded up the steps, the woman leaned against the kitchen doorframe panting. “I'll help carry up the last pails,” Rees offered.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Baldwin said. “I think if we each take a bucket, we can manage the last of the hot water.”

Rees accompanied Mrs. Baldwin into her kitchen. Instead of emptying the hot water into the pails, Rees lifted the copper from the fire and carried it up the stairs. Although much of the water had already been lugged to the second floor, the copper was still very heavy and he entered his room blowing hard.

Lydia had bathed in the shallow water already in the tub and then changed into a loose linen shift. The short hair around her face curled damply from the steamy water. As Rees poured the hot water into the large bucket, Lydia lay down upon the bed. Her belly rounded the white linen of her gown into a hill. With a long drawn-out sigh, she rested her hands upon the mound.