Death in Salem (24 page)

“Faithful husbands are more common than you believe,” Rees said, smiling at her.

In another, less ladylike woman, Rees would have described Lydia's reaction as a snort.

*   *   *

Rees volunteered to take on the dirty and tedious job of scouring the pan. He felt guilty about forgetting the bread and bacon on the fire, and anyway he wanted to think in peace. The women agreed with alacrity and left him to it. So he threw a handful of sand onto the bottom and took it outside to scrub away the burned black crust.

He agreed with Lydia; he thought Georgianne had indeed been in love with Jacob Boothe. What's more, Rees suspected the merchant had had feelings for the young widow as well. He must have known what people would think of their friendship, even if it were as innocent as Mrs. Foster claimed, and yet he visited her frequently anyway.

And then there was Isabella. Intended victim or murdered in mistake for her cousin? If the latter, then the murderer had to be someone who did not know either Georgianne or Isabella. In which case, none of the Boothe children would be guilty—they knew the difference between the ladies. But if Isabella were the intended victim …

“Will?” Lydia's voice broke into his thoughts. She came through the door carrying a towel. “Maybe you should allow me to finish that.” She handed him the linen and took the pan from his hands. He examined his fingertips with dismay. The sand had abraded his skin. He hoped the rough bits did not catch on his yarn when he was weaving. “You got most of it,” she said, inspecting the pan's bottom. “The rest will come out with hot soapy water.” She looked up at her husband. “Did your friend Mr. Eaton say anything of interest at breakfast this morning?” Rees smiled at her, glad she had recovered her good temper.

“Twig said, well his interpretation is…” He stopped and took a moment to entirely switch his thoughts from Georgianne Foster. “Apparently Mrs. Coville accused Xenobia of conspiring in the imprisonment of her daughter.” He went to the trough and plunged his hands into the water, pleasantly warm from the hot sun.

“Imprisonment?” Lydia repeated with a frown. “Xenobia must be distraught.”

“Yes,” Rees agreed. “I promised Twig we'd call on them tonight. I thought Xenobia might appreciate talking to another woman.” He grinned at his wife, feeling quite pleased with himself.

Lydia nodded but said, “I feel sorriest for Mrs. Coville. Anstiss was her only daughter. I don't wonder that she finds Anstiss's death difficult to accept.”

Rees hesitated before speaking. He dried his hands on the towel and examined his fingers as he considered his words. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But death is common. Anstiss might have died from any number of causes. “

“She almost did, with Peggy, didn't she?” Lydia said.

“Yes. So why is Mrs. Coville so certain Jacob Boothe and Xenobia are to blame?”

“Here's Mr. Eaton,” Lydia said in a totally different voice.

Rees turned and looked over the fence to the street outside. Twig's tall lanky body was bobbing up the lane toward them. He was not looking ahead of him. His eyes looked down as though focused upon his feet. Then, as the ground dipped, he disappeared from view and a moment later Rees heard a scrabbling at the gate. Rees tossed the towel to Lydia and went to greet his old friend.

“Smells like something burned up,” Twig said.

“Yes. Lydia's breakfast,” Rees said. But Twig was not really interested.

“Listen,” he said. “I just heard. The constable found Philippe Benoit. He's in jail now.”

“What?” Rees scowled at Twig. “This is why I didn't want you to involve Deputy Swett. I didn't want him to arrest Benoit. I told you, I'm not sure the sailor is guilty. I just wanted to question him.” Twig, abashed, fixed his gaze upon the ground. Turning to Lydia, Rees said, “I've got to talk to Benoit. I've got to go now.”

She nodded and flapped the towel at him. “Tell me everything when you return.”

Rees ran from the yard.

 

Chapter Twenty-two

There was no sign of Deputy Sheriff Swett at the jail; he was in his favorite tavern, no doubt boasting about his capture of this dangerous criminal. When Rees peered through the grate on the door all he could see was wavy black hair and a lean body huddled on the bench.

“Monsieur Benoit,” Rees said. “May I speak with you?” The prisoner looked up. “My name is Will Rees.”

“I know who you are.” Benoit stood up. “I didn't kill Jacob Boothe.” His accent was so faint it was almost undetectable.

“I'm not accusing you of murder,” Rees said. “I'm more interested right now in your sailing career. I saw you meet with Matthew Boothe in the Witch's Cauldron.” He looked around to see if Twig had heard that, but he had vanished. Rees cursed in frustration. He would have liked Twig to serve as a witness to his interview with Benoit.

“Who? I know no man by that name,” the Frenchman said now.

“Of course you do,” Rees said impatiently. “I saw you talking to him.” Benoit approached the grate. His eyebrow was split and bleeding and a bruise the color of a plum marked his cheek. “The deputy sheriff do that?”

Benoit tossed his head. “He accused me of murder and when I denied it, he and his friends,” Rees didn't miss the contemptuous tone, “hit me.”

“But you did meet Matthew Boothe,” Rees repeated.

Benoit tipped his head back and peered through the bars. “What's wrong with you? I do not know a Jacob Boothe or a Matthew Boothe.”

“That can't be true. They are well known in this town.”

“Maybe I've heard of them.” Benoit sounded like a sulky ten-year-old. “But I don't know them.”

“So, if not Matthew Boothe, who have you been meeting in the Witch's Cauldron tavern?” Rees asked, his voice heavy with skepticism.

“John Hull. I serve as captain on his ship, the
India Princess.
”

Rees caught the pride in Benoit's voice and guessed his captaincy was recent. “I see. You worked your way up from cabin boy?”

“No. I was a whaler first. Worked my way up to first mate. Then Mr. Hull approached me and asked if I wanted to captain a merchant ship east. I've sailed twice so far.”

“To Cathay?”

“Not yet. From the Ile de France to Turkey and India.”

“I followed you into the tunnels,” Rees said. “You beat me up.'' Benoit looked away. When he did not say anything, Rees continued his questioning. “Does Mr. Hull own a house that connects to the tunnels?” Another pause.

“That was my first time in the tunnels,” Benoit said finally. “Hull knew you were watching him; he gave me directions. He doesn't live in Salem, but further up the coast.” He suddenly bit off his words as though fearing he had said too much.

“If Hull doesn't live in Salem, how does he know about the tunnels?” Rees asked. He thought of how he'd been transported via tunnel to the intersection outside the Black Cat. “And he knows them well.” Benoit shrugged, a motion that engaged both shoulders and managed to convey complete disinterest. If John Hull was Matthew Boothe in disguise, as Rees suspected he was, then the answer to Rees's question was obvious. “Describe Mr. Hull then, if you please.”

“You said you've seen him; you know what he looks like,” Benoit said in a sullen tone.

“I want to hear your description,” Rees said.

“Fair hair, blue eyes, mustache, and beard.” His hand gestured to his chin but paused. Rees could see Benoit was remembering something. “He speaks in a peculiar manner, as though his upper lip is frozen.”

“Are you sure?” Rees demanded. That certainly did not sound like Matthew, who spoke well and, like his sister Betsy, barely ever shut up.

“Mr. Rees.” The shout drew Rees's attention. The deputy sheriff, flanked on either side by rough-looking flunkies, was hurrying up the lane toward the jail. “What are you doing with my prisoner?”

“Talking to him,” Rees said, turning a scowl upon him.

“The last time you spoke to one of my prisoners, she walked free,” Deputy Sheriff Swett said. “I don't want to see that happen with Benoit here. He's the villain who murdered Mr. Boothe.”

“I only wanted to speak with him about sailing,” Rees lied. “I didn't know you arrested him for murder. Anyway, what proof do you have that he is the killer?”

“You were looking for him,” said the deputy, grinning nastily. Rees looked away from the man's brown teeth. “I figured, if you wanted him, he must be important. And who's going to care about a common sailor?”

“I'm not a common sailor,” Benoit protested. “I'm the captain of the
India Princess.
”

“Yes, I know. You told me. Who really owns that vessel? And don't tell me John Hull. No one named John Hull lives in Salem.”

“You sure?” Rees asked, darting the deputy sheriff a look.

“Of course. I know everyone in Salem. Everyone that matters, anyway. There is a Hull family but they live a bit farther north. Whaling family. I asked Adam Coville about them. The Hulls have never owned a merchant ship, and none of the sons are named John.”

So why, Rees wondered, did Matthew choose to disguise himself as a member of a family that lived in the area? Any search of the name would surely betray his deception. He could have made up any alias he wished without discovery.

And did Matthew even know his confederate had been arrested and jailed? Rees looked up at the sky. It was coming on noon; that lazy boy would surely be awake by now. Rees decided he should pay a call upon Matthew and tell him what had happened. Glancing first at Benoit and then at Swett, Rees said, “I see. I'd like a chance to question the captain here. Please, don't hang him until I have a chance to do so.” Although he'd asked most of his questions, he didn't want the deputy sheriff to know that. And he certainly didn't want Swett to execute an innocent man.

“Once he has his turn with judge and jury,” said Swett, expectorating bloody sputum into the dirt, “I'll do the necessary, whether you've talked to him or not.”

Rees nodded and sauntered away. But once out of sight, he broke into a run. After picking up Lydia he would go directly to the Boothe house.

*   *   *

Lydia, swathed in an apron and cleaning Mrs. Baldwin's kitchen, was only too glad to abandon her domestic tasks and join Rees. While she finished scrubbing the table and hung her apron on its hook, Rees went outside and harnessed Amos to the buggy. Although Lydia assured him she was well able to walk that distance, sounding exasperated as she did so, it was a longer walk than Rees felt comfortable permitting. “I'm not ill, you know,” Lydia said tartly, yielding to him only to prevent an argument.

Once they'd climbed into the buggy, the drive to the Boothe home took less than twenty minutes. They found the household in an uproar. Shown to the morning room, Rees and Lydia joined Peggy, William, and Matthew. “Mr. Morris will be arriving shortly,” Peggy explained. “He invited Betsy out for dinner at his home. With his parents.”

“I understood they were already engaged,” Lydia said, sounding as puzzled as Rees felt.

“They are.” Throwing a quick glance at her brothers, Peggy lowered her voice. “Mr. Morris has not been very attentive of late. Betsy was worried that he would break the engagement. But now it seems as though the wedding will go forward.”

Rees exchanged a glance with Lydia. He thought Betsy might be overly optimistic; Mr. Morris could have chosen this outing to communicate different news.

“Where is she now?” Lydia asked.

“Upstairs dressing,” Peggy said.

“She's been dressing all morning,” Matthew said, his tone tart.

Peggy smiled. “She wants to look perfect so she's been putting on and then discarding every gown she owns. Ah, I hear her now.”

Rees too heard the soft step on the floor outside and turned just as Betsy entered. She was clad in dark gray, almost black, silk, cut low to expose her chest, with a white silk shawl draped across her shoulders. Her bonnet, a feminized version of a tall riding hat, was decorated with a spray of artificial flowers and a large gray bow. “You look divine, Bets,” Matthew said, stepping forward and kissing his sister upon the cheek. She switched her black gloves from one hand to another.

“Perhaps I should wear the black? To acknowledge our recent tragedies.”

“Definitely not,” Peggy said. “Mr. Morris knows about the deaths. You want him to think of your future together.”

Betsy looked at her sister. “You aren't going to wear that, are you?” she gasped.

Peggy looked down at her simple sprigged cotton. She spread out the skirt and looked at it. “What's wrong with this? I'm not planning to go out, so no one will see I'm not in mourning.”

“Don't let Mr. Morris see you.” The sound of the front door opening and the low mutter of conversation in the front hall distracted her.

“It's too late for Peggy to change,” William said. And a moment later, Mr. Morris appeared at the morning room door.

At first glance, Rees thought the gentleman unprepossessing. A short slender fellow, with a long narrow face and thinning hair, he appeared to be a number of years older than his future bride. Rees guessed Mr. Morris was closer to his own age than to Betsy's. He greeted her siblings, but his gaze passed over Rees and Lydia as though they were invisible. Neither William nor Matthew made any attempt to introduce them.

Mr. Morris extended his hand to William; he shook and with a few general comments the two men and Betsy passed into the hall. Rees focused his gaze upon Peggy, who collapsed into a chair with an exhalation of relief, and Matthew. “Thank God that's over,” he said.

Peggy nodded. “I believe she tried on all of her dresses and some of mine. Even the inappropriate ones.”