Death in Salem (18 page)

 

Chapter Sixteen

Xenobia looked up from the froth of brightly colored dresses covering every surface except the bed, which had been stripped to the mattress. Rees realized as he caught the subtle sheen of the gowns that most were made of silk. To one side was a whalebone hoop.

“Why, Mr. Rees, what are you doing here?” Xenobia asked, her voice lilting over the words.

“I wanted to introduce you to my wife,” Rees said, gesturing to Lydia.

Dropping her handful of bright blue, Xenobia stepped forward and grasped Lydia's hands in her own. “How happy I am to meet you. You have a good man here, Mrs. Rees.”

Rees looked around. Although the front windows and the door were open, allowing the fresh salt-scented air to sweep in, the room smelled fusty, the air stale from Anstiss's long illness. Rees looked at the bedside table. Dust coated the top, except for the rings left by teacups, and a lace of cobwebs decorating a book of poetry. The room bore every hallmark of occupation by an invalid.

“My father's room is just through here,” Peggy said, throwing open the connecting door between the two chambers.

“Thank you,” Rees said, stepping inside. This chamber, much smaller than the one joined to it, was so spare and so clean it resembled a monk's cell. Besides the bed, made with almost military precision, there was a chair and a clothespress. No desk. The front windows were closed, although the curtains were drawn back, and the air smelled faintly of leather and some kind of pomade. On a whim, Rees opened the door of the clothespress. Mr. Boothe had favored brown and black jackets and breeches to accompany his white shirts.

“My father slept in here,” Peggy said, “but all of his papers are located downstairs in his office.” She scowled and looked as though she might burst into angry sobs. “And now one must apply to my brother to read them.”

“I may do that,” Rees said. “It's possible your father's murderer is a business associate.”

Peggy immediately contradicted his suggestion. “I will never believe one of his partners killed him.” She wiped her wet eyes with impatient fingers.

Rees planned to speak to some of the partners, just in case, but he also expected little success from it. “And you know of no one who was quarreling with your father?” Rees asked, trying hard to be diplomatic. He meant Matthew. But Peggy shook her head. “What about your brother? Matthew?” Rees abandoned tact.

“Nothing's changed there,” Peggy said, pursing her lips. “My father reprimanded Matt on a regular basis. Without effect, I might add.”

“What if your father discovered Matthew was smuggling? Or involved in something illegal?”

“Matt?” Peggy laughed. “That isn't possible. What time my brother does not employ in playacting, he spends attending parties with his friends. He has no time or energy remaining for smuggling, or anything else that seems like work.” Her disapproval hung in the air.

Rees didn't argue, but he didn't agree. Matthew's occupations were costly ones. Perhaps Jacob had cut off Matthew's income? In any event, Rees certainly couldn't believe William Boothe would gladly support his brother's pastimes.

“Have you seen enough?” Peggy asked, rather pointedly, Rees thought. He nodded and Peggy opened the door into the hall. When he stepped out, he could hear the low murmur of the conversation between Xenobia and Lydia. Peggy poked her head into her mother's room and, a few seconds later, Lydia came out. She was frowning and she cast Rees an indecipherable glance. But she did not speak as they descended the stairs.

As they stepped into the chaotic scene below, one of the actors was arguing fiercely with another, and Matthew detached himself from a crowd of thespians and approached. “Mr. Rees,” he said. “Are you leaving now?”

“Perhaps,” Rees said, unwilling to promise anything.

“I just heard about the fire at Georgianne Foster's. Is that true?”

From behind Rees, Peggy made a small sound of dismay. Rees turned. “I hadn't heard,” she said. “What happened? What fire?”

“I think it was accidental,” Rees said. Peggy was biting her lip in distress.

“My sister and I were out driving with Mr. Morris. We passed near the fire. I had no idea it was someone we knew.”

“Well, one of my fellow actors told me that Georgianne Foster was shot and her house set on fire,” Matthew said, his voice shaking with excitement.

“Shot?” Peggy went pale and collapsed upon a stair. “Matthew?” She stopped, her gaze going to Rees and Lydia. “Was she badly hurt?”

“A woman was found dead inside the house,” Rees said, fixing his angry eyes upon the young man. “But it wasn't Georgianne Foster; it was her cousin Isabella Porter.”

“Her cousin?” Matthew looked at Rees in consternation. “The pretty one?”

“You knew what Miss Porter looked like?” Rees asked.

“Of course,” Peggy said. “We all saw the two women together at one time or another.” Her trembling hands were clenched together between her skirt-covered knees.

“Isabella wasn't…” Lydia began. Rees grabbed her wrist warningly. Let the wider world believe Miss Porter was shot. Her killer knew the truth.

“I didn't know she was dead.” Matthew looked from his horrified sister to Rees and the blood drained from his cheeks. “You don't think I had anything to do with this? I couldn't. I didn't.”

“I know you were worried about your inheritance,” Rees said, stepping down the final few stairs. Matthew shrank back, shaking his head. “I know you're involved in something,” Rees went on. “Something illegal. My bet is on smuggling. I saw you at the Witch's Cauldron, sitting with Philippe Benoit.”

Peggy pressed her hand to her chest and closed her eyes.

“Who?” Matthew shook his head, a crease forming in his forehead. “I don't know what you're talking about. I've never heard of anyone named Philippe Benoit. And I've certainly never been in the Witch's Cauldron.” Turning to his sister, he said hopefully, “You believe me, don't you, Peg? I swear, I had nothing to do with the shooting or the fire or anyone named Philippe Benoit.”

“I saw you with him,” Rees repeated.

Matthew sniffed and when he spoke again he sounded more like his usual self. “That's a low-class establishment, frequented by sailors. I wouldn't be caught dead there.” He spoke so vehemently Rees could almost believe him. “I think you're desperate, Mr. Rees. You've decided I am the guilty party. Well, you can't prove it. It's time you leave my house.” His voice trembled and broke on the final word.

Rees nodded. “Very well,” he said. “For now. But I won't stop asking questions.” Turning, he took Lydia's arm. They cut through the throng of actors, most of whom remained oblivious to the drama that had unfolded so suddenly nearby.

In silence, Rees and Lydia walked to the buggy. He handed her into the seat and then climbed in himself. “That didn't go very well,” he said.

“No. Although Matthew Boothe seemed more insulted that you would suggest he would visit the Witch's Cauldron than engage in smuggling,” Lydia said. “He didn't know Miss Porter was strangled. And it sounded as though he didn't know Mr. Benoit.”

“Matthew is an actor,” Rees said, adding, “A better one than I would have suspected.”

“Clearly he feels he is a man of consequence,” Lydia said. “What will you do now?”

“Speak to some of Jacob Boothe's business partners. And look for Benoit. We'll ask him if he knows Mr. Boothe.” He paused, thinking, and then added with a sigh, “I may have to request the deputy sheriff's help in that.”

“Why don't you ask your friend Twig? He seems to know everyone.”

“Of course. Good idea.”

After a short silence Lydia began speaking again. “Mrs. Boothe was seriously ill, Will. Those gowns Xenobia was preparing to give away? Fashionable ten years ago and more. I saw hoops and panniers, for Heaven's sake. And, from what I understand, Mrs. Boothe stayed in that room with the shades drawn, in unrelenting pain, for many years. Only the finest opium straw tea offered her relief.”

Rees thought of Jacob Boothe's monastic bedchamber and nodded. He must have been a very lonely man; no wonder he'd sought solace with another woman.

“Xenobia also told me that during the last few years, Mr. Boothe almost never visited his wife. In fact, no one did but Peggy, and that infrequently. She always left her mother's room sobbing. Anstiss's illness was terrible for everyone.”

*   *   *

Noon and dinnertime were rapidly approaching. Rees's stomach was beginning to grumble and he suspected that Lydia, who always seemed hungry now, would also be ready for dinner. But he took the long way back to Mrs. Baldwin's, stopping in front of Georgianne Foster's house. Except for the charred stain around the window, the dwelling looked peaceful. Sunlight dappled the front yard through the leaves of the maple tree. The house already radiated the unmistakable air of abandonment. No one had broken the windows, and the front door still seemed securely locked, at least from Rees's view from the buggy seat in the street, but that would surely not continue. This part of town, a short distance from the fine large houses of the well-to-do, was still genteel, but it was shabby and the rougher, poorer areas lay only a street or two away. This house wouldn't be safe for much longer.

“And where is Georgianne Foster?” Rees muttered.

“She must have women friends we could speak to and find out,” Lydia said in reply, even though Rees hadn't been asking her. “Did she mention anyone to you?”

“No. Only the Widows and Orphans committee…” Rees's voice trailed off.

Lydia pondered a moment. “Mrs. Baldwin will probably know who I might approach on that committee. I daresay the wives of Salem's influential men serve on it, and they'll know if Mrs. Foster has any special friends among them. And yes,” she added as Rees turned to look at her, “I'll be the one to ask them. They'll be much more likely to confide in Mrs. Foster's relative, just recently arrived in Salem, and looking to visit her cousin.”

Rees considered her suggestion and finally inclined his head in assent. “Yes,” he agreed. “They'll be more comfortable speaking with a relative. And also with another woman. And so will Georgianne, when we find her,” he added. “She's probably terrified.”

“I would imagine so,” Lydia agreed. “I'm very interested in her opinion of Mr. Boothe.”

Rees grunted. He knew Mrs. Foster's opinion would be wholeheartedly positive. But perhaps Lydia could tease out a more nuanced estimation; Georgianne would at least be honest.

 

Chapter Seventeen

Rees drove home and deposited horse and buggy in the stable. Then he and Lydia walked down to the Moon and Stars. She seemed unusually silent and, as they sat down to partake of boiled goose, shoat, and spoon bread, he said, “Is something the matter?”

“Just thinking. The murder of Georgianne's cousin and the fire,” she paused and took a breath. “Let me go back. You spoke about the tunnels under Salem.”

“Yes,” Rees said, startled by the rapid change of subject.

“Someone who knows the tunnels well stabbed Mr. Boothe. The killer knew exactly which tunnel led to Mr. Boothe's door. And I'll wager the merchants know those tunnels as well as their own names.”

“Yes,” agreed Rees with a nod. “That's why I began looking at Jacob's business partners.”

“But the murder of Isabella Porter is something different. Unless you believe in coincidence—a second murderer who just happens to kill someone connected to Jacob Boothe—Isabella's death must be connected to his. And why would Jacob's business partners care about Georgianne Foster or her cousin? And then there's that urchin's description of a woman entering the house.” She stared at Rees intently, willing him to understand.

“Isabella's murder was personal,” he breathed.

“Yes. I asked myself, why would Georgianne kill her cousin now? She knows you and the deputy sheriff are looking into Jacob's murder. So, unless she is a very stupid woman…”

“Which she is not,” Rees said.

“Exactly. And that led me to the two women who have a personal interest in this case: Betsy and Peggy Boothe.”

Rees regarded his wife in an appalled silence for a moment. Although he knew women were as capable of murder as men—he'd had too much experience to believe otherwise—he struggled to accept Lydia's assessment. “But they are not strong enough to overpower a healthy man,” he objected after a few seconds.

“Perhaps not. But if Betsy had the help of her brother…”

“Matthew,” Rees said involuntarily.

“Yes. Although I don't think we should focus upon him exclusively,” Lydia said.

“But Matthew knows the tunnels,” Rees said, his thoughts moving rapidly ahead. “And he has some association with common sailors, who might help him for a shilling or two.” He paused. “Perhaps you may enjoy a stroll upon the docks.”

“Where I might spot Philippe Benoit or Matthew Boothe?” she asked. “Two pair of eyes being better than one?”

“Yes, exactly,” Rees agreed with a grin, covering her hand with his. “I also want to see what ships are docked at the Boothe wharf.”

“Very well.” She smiled. “I will enjoy assisting.”

They left the tavern well after two and walked down the alley toward the wharves. Rees had forgotten they would pass by the brothel until they were actually outside the wall. A soft whistle attracted his attention. When he glanced up, he saw Annie leaning out of one of the upstairs windows and waving shyly. Rees saluted her.

“Who is that?” Lydia asked in a peculiar tone.

“I think her name is Annie. She's one of the servants here. Sort of a friend of Billy Baldwin's.”