Death in Salem (20 page)

Rees was just preparing to tie the reins to the rail when Lydia came down the steps. “I have a name,” she said. “Mrs. Weymouth is at home afternoons from three to five. She lives on Chestnut Street. I'll call upon her later. The poor Inspector seemed harried. He didn't even ask why I wanted to know. So I didn't have to lie,” she added. Rees understood; Lydia prized honesty and she hated lying, even in the aid of some greater purpose. Lydia tipped her head at Bessie. “How is she?”

“Still frightened.” He sighed. “She's too high strung for my purposes. I hope David can use her on the farm; I must find another more placid animal to pull my wagon.” He put the reins in his right hand and assisted Lydia with his left into the buggy seat. “We'll walk from now on.”

“We can use Amos,” Lydia suggested as Rees went around Bessie and climbed into the seat.

“As long as we use the buggy. He's an old horse and the wagon is heavy.” Rees turned the horse around and as quickly as he could, he directed her into a lane heading away from the docks and back to Mrs. Baldwin's yard.

By the time the mare was unhitched, cooled down, brushed, and backed into her stall, noon and dinnertime was fast approaching. Since the Moon and Stars was Twig's favorite tavern, Rees hoped his old friend would be there. But when he asked the woman proprietor, Rees was told Twig had been and gone. Rees turned to look at Lydia. Under her straw bonnet, her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. “Do you have any idea where Twig—ah, Mr. Eaton went from here?”

“He didn't say,” the publican said, peering around Rees at a customer who was waving his hand to attract attention.

“All right,” Rees said, pondering. “We'll have dinner then, and look for him later.”

Since this establishment was busy, Rees and Lydia were shown to a table right next to the fireplace. The serving girl, her cap askew and her apron dirty, hastened over with ale for both. Lydia pushed the beaker aside and asked for tea but by then the girl had already darted away. “I hope she heard me,” Lydia said. Turning her eyes to Rees, she said, “What do we do now?”

Rees did not want to run all over Salem with his pregnant wife in tow as he searched for Twig. “After dinner, we'll check his house. It's not far from here. If he isn't there, I'll return you to Mrs. Baldwin's. Then I'll look for Deputy Sheriff Swett.” Rees would prefer speaking to Twig rather than the deputy but wasn't sure he would have a choice.

“Will Xenobia be at the house?” Lydia asked.

“Perhaps. Why?”

“No reason,” Lydia said vaguely. Rees directed a suspicious look at her, but at that moment the girl arrived with Lydia's pot of tea. When she bent over to put the pot and the bowl of sugar chunks upon the table, the smell of sweat and onions billowed over Rees. He choked. But the bread that came out next was fresh baked and the roast turkey flavorful. Rees piled the white meat onto the bread and covered it all with gravy. He ate it in a few big bites. He followed it up with artichokes and half a chicken and a thick wedge of strawberry pie. Lydia, a daintier eater, had cut her meat into smaller bites and conveyed each morsel carefully to her mouth on the point of her knife. Rees was forced to wait, curbing his impatience with difficulty.

Within the hour they were back outside. Taking Lydia's arm, Rees turned west, toward Twig's little house.

A twenty-minute walk brought them to it. Rees could see Twig's glossy brown gelding in the stable at the back. Although the presence of the horse did not confirm that Twig would be here, Rees felt cautiously optimistic. He pounded on the door.

A minute of silence passed. Rees turned to Lydia in dismay. But suddenly the door was flung open. “Oh, Will. I was in the kitchen. Come in.” He stepped back. Rees stood aside so Lydia could precede him into the empty hall. “Xenobia should be here soon.”

Twig's long legs took him far ahead of his guests. He paused at the kitchen door, looking back impatiently. As they neared him, Twig disappeared inside. Rees and Lydia followed. She did not wait for an invitation to sit before finding a chair. She knew as well as Rees that Twig would not think to offer.

“So,” Twig said to Rees, “do you know who murdered Jacob Boothe yet?”

“Not yet,” Rees said. He paused, but after all, there was no point to dancing around the subject with Twig. “Do you know a sailor named Philippe Benoit?”

“Never heard of him,” Twig replied. He leaned his arm against the fireplace mantel. Since the fire was burning, although banked, Rees wondered if that position wasn't uncomfortably hot. Twig gave no sign he noticed. “But then I probably wouldn't. I usually meet people only when they're dead,” he said with an unexpected flash of humor. “Or when they know someone dead. Does he have something to do with Mr. Boothe's death?”

“Maybe.” Rees hesitated. He wasn't sure how much he should confide to Twig. “I wonder if…” Twig's gaze went over Rees and his expression suddenly changed, transforming into one of joy. Rees looked over his shoulder. Xenobia had come up the back steps and through the door. She halted just inside, her gaze going from Rees to Lydia. Her straw bonnet was tied around her chin with a black band and she carried a basket of fish just bought at market. Twig hurried to her side. Xenobia smiled and put her hand out to take his, but she turned a wary glance upon Rees.

“I'm trying to find someone who knows of a sailor named Philippe Benoit,” Rees said. Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead. Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't that.

“I've never heard the name,” she said. “Why?”

“I saw Matthew speaking with him in a tavern on the docks,” Rees replied.

“On the docks? A common sailor? Not Matthew. He's too important for that.”

“I know,” Rees agreed. “But Monsieur Benoit is a ship captain. I think they might be involved in smuggling or something.”

Xenobia sighed. “Matthew likes money, that's true. But smuggling? How would he know anything about it?” She smiled at the thought.

“Perhaps he has nothing to do with any actual smuggling,” Lydia suggested. “Suppose he buys some of the contraband and sells it at a profit.”

Xenobia nodded. “That is possible.” She added abruptly, “You've upset the Boothe children. Matthew and Betsy talked about you for an hour after you left yesterday morning.”

Rees exchanged a glance with Lydia. “I asked about Georgianne Foster,” Rees said, returning his attention to Xenobia. “Her cousin was murdered.”

“I know. Peggy can't talk of anything else.”

Rees recalled his visit to Georgianne Foster and her pretty, charming cousin. “Matthew knew about Isabella Porter,” Rees said. “Did the other Boothe children also?”

“No. Well, Miss Peggy did. But the rest of us have just heard about her,” said Xenobia, unconsciously allying herself with the Boothe family. “She joined Mrs. Foster only within the last few months.”

“Was the connection between Miss Porter and Mrs. Foster and Jacob Boothe commonly known?” Rees said.

Xenobia shrugged. “I don't know.”

Something about that situation, Rees thought, did not sound right. Jacob Boothe had behaved with no discretion at all. And Georgianne, well, she was as far from a ladybird with a low-cut bodice and shapely ankle as Rees could imagine.

“How did the Boothe children first learn of Mrs. Foster?” Lydia asked from her seat at the table. Rees nodded at her, pleased to see her thoughts were traveling the same road as his own. “Neither Mrs. Foster nor her cousin move in the same social circles as Jacob Boothe. I would think he could keep any connection secret.”

“Matthew followed his father.”

Of course he did, Rees thought. “And how did they learn of Isabella Porter?”

“Miss Peggy saw the three of them together once or twice, while she was running errands. In fact,” Xenobia admitted in a burst of candor, “Matthew thought his father preferred the cousin. Maybe Georgianne killed her, out of jealousy.”

“Did Jacob's children quarrel with their father over his—his attachment?” Rees asked. Xenobia tensed. It was so subtle Rees would have missed it if he had not been watching her.

“What do you mean?” Xenobia was stalling.

“Matthew told me he feared for his inheritance,” Rees said.

“Of course.” Xenobia's shoulders relaxed slightly. “William will inherit the house and business. The girls have their dowries. What's left for Matthew? He isn't a worker.”

Rees nodded in agreement. Matthew would view any kind of genuine labor as beneath him. “I know Peggy quarreled with her father,” Rees said. Xenobia's shoulders tightened.

“Because he gave her jobs to William,” she said quickly. “But he was right to do it. She's a woman.”

“And William and Betsy, did they ever quarrel with their father?”

“Of course not,” Xenobia said. “Betsy had her father wrapped around her finger.”

“What form of illness did Mrs. Boothe have?” Lydia asked, inserting herself into the conversation.

“Anstiss was delicate before William's birth,” Xenobia said. “She was cursed with terrible pain. But she managed until she delivered Peggy. Anstiss never recovered from her daughter's birth. And she became much worse this past year.”

“Nineteen years?” Lydia said. “She's been an invalid for nineteen years?” Xenobia nodded. Rees stared at her. Certain questions caused her to tense and parse her words with great care; Xenobia was not telling them everything. As he prepared to question her further, Lydia leaned over and took Xenobia's hand. “Yet she bore four children who all survived.”

“She was cursed,” Xenobia repeated. She paused, and then the words spilled from her. “I told Master Jacob he should take her away from Salem and the woman who put that affliction upon her. He laughed at me.” Her eyes darted to Rees who could not suppress his smile. “You are a fool, Mr. Rees, if you do not believe in witches.”

Neither Rees nor Lydia knew what to say. Xenobia pulled her hand from Lydia's grasp and said, her eyes darting to Twig. “I must return to the Boothe house soon. I want some time with Stephen.”

“I haven't seen Obie since yesterday,” Twig said. “Go away.”

“Of course,” Lydia said, rising to her feet. A line crept between her brows and she seemed puzzled. “I'm sorry if we offended you.” Rees was more annoyed than puzzled. And if he'd been alone, he would not have been so compliant. He fixed his eyes upon Xenobia, willing her to confess what she knew. But she kept her head lowered and her gaze trained upon her hands.

Lydia did not protest as Rees offered her his arm.

“Tossed ignominiously into the street,” Rees said as they walked back to Mrs. Baldwin's.

“And why?” Lydia asked. “Mrs. Boothe's illness is not a secret. Why blame it on witchcraft?”

“I don't doubt Xenobia believes the source of Mrs. Boothe's illness was a curse. But she knows something else, something shameful, judging by the way she is trying to hide it. It might not even have anything to do with Anstiss's illness.” Rees paused. He would have to reflect upon the conversation later, in quiet. “Yes, Xenobia knows something, and she doesn't want us to discover it. She couldn't wait to push us out of there.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

They took twenty minutes to walk back to Mrs. Baldwin's. Rees hitched Amos to the buggy. Although Lydia suggested walking to Chestnut Street to call upon Mrs. Weymouth, Rees knew she wasn't serious. Ladies making social calls did not arrive on foot. Also, although Lydia claimed she felt quite well enough to walk that distance, her face was pale and she was breathing fast. Rees worried that she would overtire herself and refused to consider allowing her to walk. And Lydia did not argue. So it was almost four by the time they arrived at the large white house with pillars flanking the door. Rees pulled the buggy into the line of vehicles—fancy carriages as well as buggies and even a coach or two—and jumped down. He planned to question one or two of the coachmen and see if they'd heard anything.

He avoided the uniformed drivers. They clustered together, ignoring the other men, clearly of the opinion that they were a cut above. After a moment of consideration, Rees chose a portly middle-aged man in a suit of fustic yellow to question. Although his breeches and jacket were worn, his thinning hair was pulled neatly back into a queue, his stock was clean, and his cheeks had been recently scraped clear of whiskers. No doubt a gentleman with aspirations to gentility. Rees approached him. After making a few neutral comments, Rees inserted a few discreet questions about the Boothe family into the conversation. The fustic-garbed gentleman was not the only one of the drivers with an opinion. Mr. Boothe was universally described as a generous and honest man, and everyone seemed to know of Mrs. Boothe's illness. Matthew, though, came in for a lot of criticism.

Finally the coachman, who identified himself as a Mr. Bumble, drew Rees aside. “You're not from Salem,” he said. Rees allowed as how that was so. “Otherwise, you'd know about Matthew Boothe. He doesn't pay his bills, and his tailor had to apply to Mr. Boothe Senior several times to get the account settled.”

“What will happen now that Mr. Boothe is dead?”

“Well, young Matthew will not have so much success having his debts discharged, that's for certain,” Mr. Bumble said. “I've seen his brother William and he, I assure you, will not be so generous.”

“He's a dull gentleman,” said one of the other drivers, a skinny fellow with rotting teeth.

“Honest, maybe,” agreed the coachman, drawing Rees even further down the lane, “but without his father's sense of humor. Now Miss Peggy, well, she has her father's common touch. Comfortable with sailors as well as society ladies. All of us have seen her since she was a child, running errands for her father. He permitted her an unusual freedom, for a female.”