Death in Salem (3 page)

By midmorning Rees was well away from the coast and angling north. Within a few days, he would cross the border into the District of Maine, and a day or so after that, if nothing unusual happened, he could expect to arrive home.

Intent upon his thoughts, he heard but did not consciously notice the hoofbeats thudding up the road behind him until he heard the shouting. “Rees. Will Rees. Stop.” Rees glanced over his shoulder and saw the horseman, his face covered by a scarf, galloping toward him. Swerving to the road's shoulder, Rees pulled Bessie to a stop and turned around.

The rider loosened the cloth tied about his face, revealing himself as Twig. “I've been riding after you for hours,” he gasped. Rees stared at the other man. Both he and his mount were covered with dust and sweat.

“What happened?” he asked.

Twig stared, his face a mask of agony. “Mr. Boothe has been murdered.”

“Mr. Boothe? Mr. Jacob Boothe?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no,” Rees said involuntarily. Despite Boothe's recent bereavement and the obvious quarrel with his daughter, he had made time to be kind to a stranger.

“Who would want to murder such a good man?” Rees asked. Twig's expression went through a variety of contortions.

Rees stared at his friend in dawning horror. “Surely no one believes you…” But wouldn't Twig be in jail if he were a suspect?

“No, not me. My … my woman. She's a servant in the Boothe household. She attended Mrs. Boothe, oh, for the last nineteen or so years. The deputy sheriff arrested my Xenobia when Mr. Boothe's body was discovered.”

Rees said nothing. Like the deputy, he would wonder about Mrs. Boothe's servant also; no one could hate a person quite as much as someone who had to see that person every day. And Rees remembered Peggy Boothe's reaction to her father at the averil—perhaps that did suggest some form of ill treatment. But asking Twig if he was sure his lover had not murdered Mr. Boothe, especially in light of his extreme distress, seemed unnecessarily cruel. “How was Mr. Boothe killed? Was he shot?”

“I don't know. I don't know anything.” Twig's voice rose. “Xenobia got word to me that she was in jail…” He broke down into the rough, unrestrained sobs of a child. “I remembered you found a murderer in the War,” he gulped. “And I'll pay you. I have some money put by. Help me. Please.”

If Twig had reminded Rees he owed his old companion his life, Rees might have said yes, but he would have resented it. He was keenly aware, however, that he
did
owe Twig his life, and the fact that the other man did not attempt to call in the marker made Rees feel even more beholden. And then there was Jacob Boothe, a kind man who had not deserved to die so soon.

“Don't worry,” Rees said, knowing he sounded silly; Twig couldn't help but worry.”Of course I'll help you. We'll sort it out. The deputy may already realize he's made a mistake. Why, he might have released her by now.”

Rees was not certain of anything of the kind; the deputy might be one of those who did not worry about the truth and chose the easiest solution. But Twig's sobs began to lessen.

“Let's see what the situation is,” Rees said, urging Bessie into motion and guiding her in an arc across the road. “I'll follow you back to Salem.”

“Hurry, hurry,” Twig shouted. “God knows what's happening to Xenobia right now.”

“Nothing, yet,” Rees said, glancing at Twig's mare. She was tired and blowing hard. “Walk a ways, give your mount a rest.”

“They might be preparing to hang her,” Twig cried in alarm. “Can't your nag travel any faster?”

“Meet me at Mrs. Baldwin's Emporium in two hours,” Rees said. The words were barely out of his mouth before Twig whipped his horse into motion and disappeared east in a gale of dust. Sighing, Rees snapped his whip over Bessie's flanks. She broke into a canter back toward Salem.

*   *   *

By the time Rees reached Mrs. Baldwin's store, closer to three hours later than two, Twig's feet had already worn a discernible path through the dust. “Come on, come on, come on,” he cried as soon as he saw Rees approaching. A bright blue cloth square was now tied about his neck. Rees looked at it curiously; he had seen other men wearing something similar at yesterday's averil and was puzzled by the strange fashion. “She's in jail. We must hurry,” Twig said insistently.

Rees held up a hand. “If she's in jail now, a few more moments will make little difference. Allow me to speak with Mrs. Baldwin and determine if her extra room is still available. And if I can put Bessie and my wagon in her stable.” Twig grabbed Rees's arm in response. Rees shook him off. “Please, Twig,” he said in a stern voice. Twig backed away.

Rees tied up Bessie and told Twig to watch his wagon while he stepped inside the store. Mrs. Baldwin's eyes widened when she saw Rees, and she came forward with a smile. Yes, Rees's room was still available. Yes, he was free to put his horse and wagon in the stable. He settled Bessie in the stall with the wagon beside it, but hesitated before taking his loom and recent purchases to his room. He hoped he'd be able to leave soon, maybe even tomorrow. Not only was he eager to see Lydia again but he was beginning to worry about her. How was she managing with those children? He hoped David was keeping up with the farm; that heavy work would be too much for his pregnant wife. After several moments of indecision, Rees finally took everything to his room. Then he rejoined Twig outside and they set a rapid pace through the streets to the jail.

The jail was several blocks south of the docks, so distant that it took Rees and Twig almost twenty minutes to reach it. Constructed of stones pulled from the rocky soil, the cell was large enough for several prisoners to be crammed in together. Rees wondered if this was the jail that had housed the accused witches one hundred years ago. A young woman, quite tall and garbed in a black cloak, stood outside with her face pressed to the bars. She glanced at them, said something reassuring to the prisoner inside, and hastened away. Rees had a confused impression of an angular face and fair hair under a straw bonnet. She looked familiar.

“That's Peggy Boothe,” Twig said in surprise. Now Rees knew where he'd seen the young woman before: at the averil after her mother's funeral. She was the girl who'd been so angry with her father. “What is she doing here?” He pushed Rees up to the barred door. “Obie,” he cried through the bars. “I've brought help as I promised.” Rees wondered how much time Twig had spent at the jail since this woman's incarceration.

The stink of vomit and urine, the odor of prisons everywhere, eddied into the lane. Rees stepped back a pace and eyed the woman on the other side. She was small and slender, a black woman, so-called although her skin was no darker than a warm brown. She was plainly dressed in black calico and had wound a black shawl, recently dyed by its streaked appearance, about her shoulders. Rees directed a penetrating stare at his friend. Marrying a servant was of no great importance, but marrying a black slave was quite another issue. Was it even legal in Massachusetts? Maine had laws prohibiting such a marriage. No wonder Twig wanted this connection kept private.

She examined Rees, asking in a lilting voice, “What can he do? Miss Peggy has promised to speak to Deputy Sheriff Swett.”

“You know I have no confidence in Swett,” Twig interrupted her. “If only Sheriff Ropes had not passed away. Now, he would sort this.” Glancing at Rees, Twig explained, “Mr. Swett is an appointee. The deputy sheriff expected to succeed Mr. Ropes is currently away with the militia.” Turning back to Xenobia, Twig continued. “Rees has had experience and I promise you he'll find Mr. Boothe's killer. And free you from this prison.” Xenobia shot another look at Rees, frowning in doubt.

“If you are innocent of murder,” Rees said. He already entertained some doubts as to whether a small woman could overpower a gentleman as tall and strong as Jacob Boothe.

“Of course I didn't kill him. What would I be doing in the tunnels?”

“Tunnels?” Rees asked.

“Besides, he was good to me, Mr. Boothe was,” Zenobia continued without pausing. “He was a good man.”

Rees sighed. “Yes. I met him only once but he seemed an honest and affable gentleman. His death is regrettable.”

“It is tragic,” Xenobia said, the soft lilt of her speech not quite masking her tart reply. “Who would want to kill him? Everyone liked him.”

Rees did not make the obvious retort; someone had clearly hated Mr. Boothe enough to murder him. “How was he killed?”

“I don't know, no one told me.” She paused, hesitated briefly, and added, “But he's laid out at the house. Maybe Miss Peggy knows.”

“I'll speak with her,” Rees promised. He moved away, offering Twig some privacy as he murmured loving pledges to the jail's inmate.

Finally, reluctantly, Twig separated himself and joined Rees. “Can you help her?”

“Perhaps. I need to see the body first.” He looked at his friend. “And speak to Miss Boothe. Miss Peggy may be able to use her family's influence to achieve Xenobia's release. If she believes Xenobia is innocent.”

“She does. I'm certain of it.” Twig, his mouth trembling, turned to Rees. “We must hurry.” He started away, lengthening his stride until Rees, even with his long legs, had to hurry to keep up.

They soon reached the Boothe family's fine mansion. At least three stories high and painted white, the house was notable for the four pillars at the entrance. Several buggies and a wagon were drawn up outside. Rees and Twig climbed the front stairs and entered the house; there was so much commotion that no one stood at the door to stop them. They passed through the front foyer and the beautifully carved wooden doors to the interior hall. Rees, who had not been this far inside the house before, looked around curiously. A fine rug in shades of blue and red ran the length of the hall, and various exotic objects—a porcelain Chinese bowl, stone and wooden carvings of strange creatures, and a chair upholstered in bright blue brocade—revealed the completion of successful voyages to the Orient.

When a man, who carried himself with the consequence of an upper servant, approached them, Twig promptly asked for Miss Margaret Boothe. The servant hesitated, clearly in a quandary. Leaving Twig to resolve that, Rees followed the dirty trail on the floor to a room at the back, just before the grand staircase rose to the second floor. The desk identified it as the housekeeper's office, although the small room also held a large table, now bearing Mr. Boothe's body, and a number of chairs pushed to the paneled walls.

Only one man attended the canvas-shrouded corpse. He was dressed in breeches and a black linen jacket; the doctor probably, Rees thought. The gentleman turned and said, “You shouldn't be in here.” Doctor certainly, from his educated diction.

“This isn't idle curiosity,” Rees said as he approached the body. “I have been retained by Miss Boothe to look into her father's murder.” At least he hoped that was the case—otherwise he was barging into a place where he had no business. “How was Mr. Boothe murdered?”

The doctor hesitated and then said, “He was stabbed.” Before he could say anything further, Rees flipped back the canvas. Jacob Boothe's bloodless face stared up at the ceiling. Rees felt a spasm of sorrow. Violent death was never acceptable but Rees felt worse knowing that Jacob Boothe had been an agreeable gentleman. Someone had closed his eyes; Rees was thankful for that. He hated seeing the empty, staring gaze of the dead. Pushing away his emotion, Rees carefully re-covered Boothe's gray face. “It's not pretty,” the doctor began. He stopped talking when Rees bent over the body to examine the wound himself. The pungent metallic odor of drying blood overlay but did not disguise the hint of decay. Corruption would occur rapidly in this June heat.

Boothe's coat had been unbuttoned and opened, revealing a neat gray waistcoat and a crisp white shirt underneath. But the left side of his chest was so sodden with blood Rees could see nothing of the injury. Taking his own pocketknife, he rapidly cut through the wet waistcoat and linen shirt beneath.

“Now, see here,” the doctor remonstrated. Rees ignored him as he bent over the wound. The blade that had made it must have been several inches wide. Although the weapon had not struck the heart, the sharp point had gone deep. Rees wondered how deep.

“Help me turn him over,” he said to the doctor, trying to flip the well-nourished body. The doctor hesitated but curiosity got the better of him and he joined Rees in nudging the body over. A gold guinea, two shillings and a large key fell out of Boothe's pockets onto the table and into the blood that had pooled underneath the wound. The back of the linen jacket was saturated. “The blade went all the way through,” Rees murmured in astonishment. “Hold him, please.” While the doctor steadied the body, Rees used his knife again to slit first the jacket, and then the waistcoat and shirt, up the back. Both men regarded the exit wound, a long bloody gash fringed with flesh, in silence.

“Whatever the weapon was,” Rees muttered, “it was wicked sharp. Not a knife either. More of a sword?” His voice rose as though asking a question.

“He bled to death,” the doctor said, his voice shaking. “Dear God. And it wouldn't have taken long.”

“But what was he stabbed with?” Rees asked. “Saber? Sword? Not an ordinary knife, surely.”

“No. The cut is too extensive. I'm not sure,” the doctor muttered, leaning forward to peer at the wound. “The blade was both long and sharp. Squarish. And whoever wielded the weapon must have been strong. Piercing a human body in this manner would not be easy.”

“What the Hell are you doing in here?” a strange voice demanded.

 

Chapter Four

Rees jumped and spun around. Two young men stood just inside the door. The eldest, in his mid-twenties by the look of him, and with a close enough resemblance to the man on the table to identify him as a relative, stepped inside. His hair was not quite as dark as his father's, and he shared Peggy's long-limbed build and angular features. His face was dusky with anger.