Death in Salem (27 page)

Twig swung back the door, and the faint smell of decay rushed out. Rees gagged and swallowed. He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Twig seemed unaffected. He flipped the canvas covering aside, disclosing the body lying upon a table scattered with sawdust and shattered ice. It was melting fast; water pattered steadily upon the ground. “You owe me for the ice,” Twig said. Rees stared down at the dark form. He could barely see it. Twig collected the lantern and held it aloft. The corpse sprang into view, but details were not visible in that uncertain light.

“I can't even see the color of his skin,” Rees said. “This will not do.”

“But corruption will advance rapidly in the heat,” Twig objected.

“I'll return first thing tomorrow,” Rees said, adding recklessly, “I'll pay for the ice. But I need light to thoroughly examine him.”

Twig said nothing but he flipped the canvas over the cadaver with a sharp, angry motion. Rees left the shed and started back to the house, leaving Twig to close up by himself.

“… ill since before Peggy's birth,” Xenobia was saying when Rees reentered the house. “But Anstiss seemed to grow so much worse in the weeks before her death.”

“Did anything unusual happen?” Lydia asked.

Xenobia rose to her feet and took the kettle from the fire. She poured hot water into the pot. “Your coffee will be ready in another minute, Mr. Rees,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a step toward the table.

“Do you want tea or coffee?” Xenobia asked Twig as he lumbered noisily into the kitchen.

“Ale,” he said. Xenobia shot him a look. “Please,” he added.

Into the sudden silence, Lydia said, “So, Mrs. Boothe eased her pain with regular infusions of opium tea. Is that right?” Rees, realizing that Lydia had repeated this for his benefit, turned to look at Xenobia,

“Yes. And, oh, without the tea Anstiss was in such pain.” Xenobia shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “She was writhing and screaming like an animal. None of us could bear it.”

“Everyone is saying that prisoner will hang,” Twig said to Rees, talking over Xenobia. “And I heard Deputy Swett is planning to ask William Boothe to pay him instead of you, as he was the one to find the sailor and jail him.” Now Twig had gained Rees's full attention.

“But there's no proof that Benoit is guilty,” Rees said, his voice rising. “And he hasn't gone before the magistrate.”

Twig nodded. “I know. The deputy always threatens to hang his prisoners. Sometimes the families come forth with a gift, money usually, to rescue the accused.”

Rees stared at Twig. “He takes bribes?” He heard the outrage in his voice. But then, why should he be surprised? It was of a piece with Mr. Swett's character, and he had to pay for his fancy clothing somehow.

“Mr. Rees? Your coffee.” Xenobia put a large mug upon the table with a sugar bowl full of chunks and a pitcher of cream beside it. She added a plate of lemon chess tarts.

Twig gave Rees a push toward the table. “Let's eat.”

Suddenly realizing he was very hungry, Rees sat down across from Lydia and helped himself to several of the yellow squares.

“So,” Twig continued in Rees's ear, “if you're sure the Frenchman is innocent, you may be able to free him. But if he is, who murdered Jacob Boothe?”

Rees turned his attention back to Twig. “I think the owner of the
India Princess
may have something to do with it,” he said, more to himself than to his companion. His thoughts were in turmoil.

“Who?” Twig asked. But Rees shrugged. He didn't want to offer Twig any more information. Rees feared his friend, whose judgment varied, would broadcast it at the tavern.

“And how are you feeling?” Xenobia asked Lydia, with a wave at her belly.

“Hungry,” Lydia admitted. “I could barely eat at all for the first few months. But now I can't stop eating.”

“I understand the Covilles visited the Boothes,” Rees said, interrupting the ongoing conversation almost without realizing it. His spinning thoughts had brought him back to Anstiss and her birth family. Lydia frowned at him.

Xenobia turned a startled glance upon him but she nodded. “Yes. Master William offered them the opportunity to choose a memento of Anstiss's to keep. As I told Miss Lydia.”

“And?”

Xenobia sighed and darted a resigned glance at Twig. “Mrs. Coville accused the entire Boothe family in general, and me in particular, of imprisoning her daughter and keeping her from her mother and brothers.”

“You?”

“Yes. Because I nursed Anstiss. Because I spent all my time with the poor lady. Because I protected her. Mrs. Coville admitted to me that she knew Anstiss was ill, seriously ill, but she still doesn't want to accept the death as a natural one.”

“I feel sorry for her,” Lydia said. “She's half-mad with grief.”

“They all are,” Xenobia said. “Anstiss was the only girl in the family, and a beautiful and loving daughter and sister.” She spoke with compassion and understanding, but Rees heard the hurt underneath, that she should be accused of harming her charge. Lydia reached out and clasped Xenobia's hand, her pale skin looking even whiter next to Xenobia's caramel.

“The grief is fresh now,” Lydia said. “When it fades, Mrs. Coville will regret the accusation she made against you.” Xenobia nodded, but her face worked.

“Is there any reason Mrs. Coville might have for believing…” Rees began.

Xenobia burst into angry speech. “I cared for Anstiss for more than nineteen years,” she said. “How could anyone believe I would ever hurt her?”

“Don't cry,” Twig said, his eyes moistening as though he might weep in sympathy. “It will be all right.”

Rees ate his second tart, trying to see his way through the thicket of emotion. He knew very well that most murder victims met their ends at the hands of their nearest and dearest: husbands, wives, children. His thoughts turned again to Jacob Boothe. Rees could think of any number of reasons for believing someone close to Boothe had murdered him, not the least of which were the location in the tunnels where his body had been found, and the fact he had not been robbed. “Is there anything else you know,” he said, interrupting Xenobia's conversation once again, “that might help identify Jacob Boothe's murder? Something you haven't told me?”

“Nothing to do with the murder,” she declared furiously. Rees believed her.

“You should go,” Twig told Rees. “I thought you would comfort her, not accuse her.”

“I didn't mean to offend you or your lady,” Rees said.

“I have to return to the Boothes tonight,” Xenobia said, polite but stiff. “William expects to see me working around the house.” She rose and began putting on her bonnet. Lydia threw Rees a reproachful glance as she stood up. They found their own way to the front door and descended the steps in silence.

As they walked down the dark street, Rees said to Lydia, “Did you learn anything?” He wished Twig had not pulled him away.

“No. Nothing new, anyway. Xenobia really cared about Anstiss.”

“She knows something,” Rees said. “Something she is keeping back.”

“It may have nothing to do with the murders,” Lydia said.

Rees shook his head. He knew he was missing something, but right now his thoughts were in a jumble. If only he weren't so tired.

 

Chapter Twenty-five

By the time Rees and Lydia arrived at Mrs. Baldwin's back gate, only the stars and the thin quarter moon illuminated the sky. The alley was black and Rees fumbled at the latch, opening it by feel. Fortunately, they could see Mrs. Baldwin through her kitchen window sitting at the table, head bent, with a candle before her. The reddish glow of the banked fire glimmered behind her. As they started for that friendly beacon, Rees thought he caught a flash of light in the barn, but when he turned to look he saw nothing. He could hear Amos and Bessie moving in their stalls, but otherwise all was dark and silent. He rejoined Lydia, and they went through the back gate, through the garden, and into the house.

Lydia washed her face and hands in the basin and undressed in the dark. She lay down with a tired sigh. Rees, whose hands and clothing smelled of saltwater, followed suit. But, although he lay down, he couldn't find a comfortable spot. His shoulders hurt and the events of the day whirled through his brain in a maddening loop. He couldn't make sense of the clamor. Finally, he pulled himself out of bed and sat by the window.

Most good folk had retired for the night; only a few candles were visible through the windows. And down by the docks, a haze of light marked the location of the Black Cat. A sudden movement in the back yard caught his eye. Billy peered through the barn door, a shrouded lantern in one hand. Seeing nothing, he turned back inside. A moment later he and a smaller form exited the barn and hurried through the yard to the gate. As Billy held the lantern aloft, the dim light fell upon the features of his companion: Annie. Rees whistled softly. Well, this was an interesting development. Annie slipped through the door into the alley and Billy extinguished his light. Rees heard the sound of the boy's footsteps—very faint as Billy took care not to be heard—through the yard and the creak of the garden gate. Seconds later, he tiptoed up the stairs, and Rees heard the muffled click of the bedroom door closing across the hall.

How long had those children been meeting? And should Rees inform Mrs. Baldwin? He spent a minute or two considering his responsibility to another parent. What would he want another adult to do if this was David? He couldn't decide. Finally, he pushed a decision forward to morning and returned to his consideration of the murders.

What was he missing? Someone had told him something important, and he couldn't place it. Rees tried to remember what it was but couldn't identify either the speaker or the stray fact. Perhaps Philippe Benoit was hiding something. Rees nodded to himself. That would make sense. The Frenchman must know more than he'd confessed, despite his denial. Maybe he knew more about John Hull? And who was John Hull? Matthew Boothe, or someone else? Well, Rees thought, he would press Benoit tomorrow. If that Frenchman knew anything, Rees would squeeze it out of him.

Then there was Deputy Swett. Twig was sure that the man accepted bribes. Swett might be persuaded to release Benoit for the proper remuneration. But who would do that? Not Rees; he didn't have the necessary funds, even if he wanted to free Benoit. John Hull? Well, not if Hull was a pseudonym for Matthew Boothe, who had already denied any knowledge of or interest in the sailor.

And I'm back to John Hull, Rees thought.

“Will?” Rees heard the rustle of the bed linens as Lydia sat up. “What are you doing out of bed?” She paused, and in the silence he heard the faint sound of a yawn. “I thought you were tired.”

“Thinking,” Rees grunted. “About John Hull, mostly.” Should he tell her about Billy and Annie? He couldn't decide. Rising to his feet, he crossed to the bed and sat on the edge. “Who is Hull? Matthew Boothe? William Boothe? Someone else? I don't know.”

“You know he owns the
India Princess,
” Lydia said. “The mate said Mr. Hull bought the vessel from Jacob Boothe.”

“Yes,” Rees said. “So?”

“Well, there's got to be a record of that sale. Right? The Elders and Eldresses in Zion kept track of everything. Would Jacob Boothe be less careful?”

“No,” Rees agreed, excitement flaring in his chest. “He wouldn't. I'll wager the record of this transaction is in one of the ledgers in Boothe's office.” Reaching over, he grasped Lydia's hand in his. “First thing this morning, before William Boothe leaves for the day, I'll call upon him and apply for the key to his father's office. Perhaps the ledger will include Mr. Hull's address.”

“Perhaps,” Lydia agreed. “Now, try to go back to sleep. Dawn will arrive early enough.”

*   *   *

Rees awoke very suddenly. The morning sun was already up and shining through the windows into the room. The spot beside him in the bed was empty.

He leaped to his feet and began throwing on his breeches and his vest over his linen shirt. Most mornings he changed his shirt, washed, and sometimes shaved, but he had no time today. He hurried downstairs. The door to Mrs. Baldwin's apartment was open, and when he looked through he saw Lydia and the landlady sitting together at the table. A teapot and two cups between the two women told Rees they'd already drunk their morning beverage and probably consumed some breakfast as well.

Mrs. Baldwin waved to him, and Lydia turned to look at her husband over her shoulder. “I'll put the coffee pot on,” Mrs. Baldwin said, struggling to her feet.

“I can't stop,” Rees said. Directing an accusatory glance at Lydia, he added, “I overslept. Why didn't you wake me?”

“It is not so late as all that,” she said, raising her eyebrows at him. “You were tired.”

“William Boothe leaves home early,” he said, hearing the annoyance in his voice. “I told you last night I wanted to leave first thing.”

“I offered your wife some leftover egg pie,” Mrs. Baldwin said, attempting to diffuse the tension between husband and wife. “Would you like some?”

“I don't have time,” Rees said. Lydia frowned at him. “I don't want to miss William Boothe—and my chance to check his father's office. That John Hull is the key to Jacob Boothe's murder. I'm certain of it.” Rees was overwhelmed with the sense of evaporating time, and he didn't want to waste any precious minutes. He hesitated, eyeing his wife, not sure he wanted her with him just now. He didn't want to take the time to harness Amos to the buggy. That meant traveling on foot, and Rees planned to run. Lydia would only slow him down. “Do you want to come?” he asked. A line furrowed the delicate skin between her brows, and he suspected she'd heard the reluctance in his voice.