Death in Salem (6 page)

“But?”

“The whaling ship is looking for sailors.” Billy sighed in frustration. “But my mother begged me to stay home. I've already missed so many chances.” He stroked the comb over Bessie's flank several times before bursting again into speech. “I'm a man. It's time I leave home.”

“Your mother would surely miss you,” Rees said, his tone gentle. Billy's face crumpled and for a moment he fought tears.

“I can't stay here forever,” he said at last, gruffly. “I'm not a boy anymore. Time to make my fortune. And keeping a shop isn't for me.”

Rees looked at the lad, who couldn't be more than fourteen, just David's age, and shuddered at the thought of his son going whaling. “Know anything about sailing?” he asked, understanding that arguing would only set Billy in his purpose.

“Some,” Billy said, armed with boyish bravado. “Been on the docks all my life. I'll learn the knack right quick.”

“Well, at least on a whaler you'd be home sooner, months maybe instead of years. But I've heard it's hard, brutish work.”

“Yes. Truth is, I don't really want to sail on a whaler,” the boy confided. “I just want some experience. I'd make more money on a merchantman. Besides,” he added with a shudder, “I've heard that when they bring the whale aboard the decks run with blood. Not that I'm squeamish.”

But he was. “That wouldn't be my choice either,” Rees agreed. “How long would you be gone, on a merchantman?”

“Six months to a year,” Billy said. “Probably more. With luck, I'd bring home enough money to invest in another ship. There's big money to be made, Mr. Rees. On pepper and other spices, silk and cottons, opium from Turkey as well as India.” His eyes sparkled with excitement.

Rees nodded in understanding. It wasn't just the lad's desire to seek his fortune then, but also the spirit of adventure that moved him. Rees wondered how Billy would feel when he returned—if he returned, for this was a dangerous business. He might be ready to settle down and run the shop then, and be glad of it.

“Wouldn't it be better to wait until you can secure a position on a merchant ship?” Rees asked. “You don't want to miss your chance while you're out to sea on a whaler. Especially if that's not what you want.”

“I just don't want to be trapped in Salem my whole life,” Billy said. Rees hid a smile. To someone thirty-six, almost thirty-seven years old, fourteen seemed unbearably young.

“Was Mr. Boothe successful? As a merchant?”

“The Mr. Boothe that was just found killed?” Billy asked. “Indeed he was. The merchant vessel
Hindoo Queen
is his ship—well, I guess it belongs to William Boothe now. Some say another few good cargoes and Boothe would be in competition with the Derbys and the Crowninshields. And he started as a cabin boy. A sailor who worked his way up to mate and then supercargo and then captain, with bigger shares in each voyage, until finally he retired from the sea and sent other men out on ships he owned.”

“Supercargo? I'm not a sailor, so…”

“A supercargo goes along on board to look after the business interests of the owner.”

“I see.” Rees thought that job had to be easier than deckhand. “Was Mr. Boothe already such competition for Mr. Derby or Mr. Crowninshield that they might have elected to remove him?”

Billy laughed. “No, they were all friendly. Besides, plenty of riches in the East. That's what Mr. Briggs, my master, always says. William Boothe went out on one or two of the ships as the supercargo,” Billy continued. “Then he went right into the counting house. They say he has a head for figures.”

“And what of Mr. Boothe's wife?” Rees asked. “Was she a member of one of the sailing families?”

Billy nodded. “That she is. Was. Well, whaling. Her brothers run a few whalers, I believe. And I wouldn't be surprised if the Covilles invested in Mr. Boothe's first venture. For cargo and such.”

“You seem to know quite a bit,” Rees said.

Billy nodded. “I've worked at the ropewalk for a few years now and as I walk back and forth, back and forth, I listen to all the talk. Helps pass the time.”

Rees nodded. “Well, I wish you good fortune, Billy. It's a dangerous profession you want to follow.” Turning, he made his way to the house's back door.

Mrs. Baldwin came through it as Rees approached. Her eyes, under the white cap, were red. But although she looked across to her son, combing Bessie's rough coat as if his life depended upon it, she said only, “Time for supper, Billy.”

The memory of Lydia, with David and the orphans they'd adopted in New York clustered around her, lingering in the farmhouse door to wave farewell suddenly popped into Rees's mind. The plight of women: always watching their menfolk vanish over the horizon with no guarantee of their return. He suddenly missed his wife with a physical ache. He wished he could hear her voice, and laughed ruefully, imagining her tart comments on this situation. And the children, oh he missed them far more than he had expected. He'd been glad to leave home and live in quiet for a spell. But now he saw the image of Judah's little head with those big ears, and Nancy's flyaway blond hair that wouldn't stay in a braid, and Joseph's toothy grin—Rees realized all at once how difficult it would be to leave his family for long spells. It had been many years, since before Dolly's death, since he had felt such a strong pull home.

 

Chapter Six

An hour later, Mrs. Baldwin plodded upstairs to tell Rees he had company. Since he knew few people in Salem, and only one of them well, he was unsurprised to find Twig waiting for him outside the door. The undertaker gestured to Rees and said in a low voice, as though this was a secret, “Xenobia's at my house. She'll talk to you now.”

Mrs. Baldwin had retreated into the kitchen at the back of the building and so could not hear them, but Rees made no comment as he followed his friend through the yard and into the warren of narrow streets. In the gloom, and with Twig loping ahead, Rees feared he would never again be able to find his way to his friend's house.

Built at the corner where two streets met, it was small and distant from the docks. Rees thought it was close to the Commons, near the much finer Boothe home, but he wasn't really certain. However, the house boasted a tiny front yard, a back patch with a vegetable garden, and a shed or some other structure near the rear fence. The front door opened into a small hall. As Twig hared off to the left, Rees glanced into the right-hand chamber. Save for a fireplace, unlit, the room was entirely empty. The space they walked through on the left contained a bench, a desk, and a bed that, surprisingly, was made up with clean linens and a bright summer quilt. But Twig hurried forward, into the back room that proved to be the kitchen.

Xenobia straightened up from stirring the fire. “Are you hungry, Mr. Rees? I have some soup here.” Rees allowed as how he could eat a bowlful. She swung the pot to the hearth and ladled out a large portion. A chunk of fresh baked bread followed and Rees sat down upon the bench by the rough wooden table. “Miss Peggy begs you to attend upon her tomorrow,” Xenobia said. “Now that her brother has retained you to investigate her father's death, she wishes to offer you any assistance you may require.” She sounded as though she was quoting something Peggy had said to her.

Rees nodded and, fully grasping the relationship between Twig and this woman from the West Indies, gestured her to a seat across the table. “Please, sit, so that we may talk more comfortably,” he said.

She hesitated, eyeing Rees warily. “I am but a slave, Mr. Rees.”

“In this house you are the mistress,” he said. “Or am I incorrect in that supposition?”

“No,” Twig said. “When I've saved enough money I'll purchase her freedom and we will marry. I expect you to treat her with the respect due my wife.”

“Of course,” Rees said, patting the air in lieu of Twig's back. “Please, Mistress.” Rees turned to Xenobia. “Sit beside Twig.”

“Twig?” She looked at the man beside her in surprise.

“It was a nickname we adopted during the War,” Rees said. “He was as tall as he is now and even more slender then.”

“I see. Well, ask your questions then, Mr. Rees. But I don't know what I can tell you. I didn't kill Mr. Boothe and I don't know about the tunnels.”

“But you know the family and that's what I am curious about.” Xenobia did not reply. “Two deaths within, what, four days?” Still the woman said nothing, her face impassive. Rees wondered if she was hiding something or was just too frightened to react. “How long have you worked for the Boothes?” he asked, trying to put her at ease.

“Almost nineteen years,” she said. “Since just before Miss Peggy was born.”

“You were hired as her nurse?” Rees asked.

“Yes. It was a difficult pregnancy. And a difficult birth.” Pause. This time Rees waited to see if she would add anything further. “Miss Anstiss was an older mother then,” Xenobia finally added.

“That explains the connection between you and Peggy then,” Rees said. “You raised her.” Xenobia nodded. “And how did you come to serve as Mrs. Boothe's maid?”

“She never completely recovered from Peggy's birth,” Xenobia said. “Her health was poor ever after. I … nursed her.” Rees wondered what Xenobia had intended to say. “Lately her health worsened,” she continued. “Mr. Boothe sent her to their country farm last summer.”

I'll bet he did, Rees thought, recalling Mr. Boothe's alleged mistress.

“But Miss Anstiss fared poorly there too and had to be brought home again.”

“How was the relationship between Mr. Boothe and his wife?” Rees asked. Xenobia looked startled and hesitated. Rees could see she was considering the question and kept silent.

“Well enough. I think he genuinely loved her. When I first came into the household, he denied her nothing. But he was a healthy man, active and lively, and over the years he lost patience with his wife's illness.”

“He lost patience?” Rees repeated.

Xenobia tensed. “Yes. He urged her to leave her bed. To go outside of her room. Join the family at meals. But, of course, she could not. She was too sick.”

“I daresay you've heard about Mr. Boothe's mistress,” Rees said.

“Yes,” Xenobia said after a short hesitation. “But who knows if it is true? Anyway, I wouldn't blame him. He had great energy, and Anstiss was ill a long time.”

Rees nodded in understanding. “Of course. Were there money problems that you knew of? Did Mr. Boothe have creditors whom he could not pay?”

Xenobia laughed, relaxing completely for the first time. “No sir. Everything Mr. Boothe touched turned to gold. He was talking about relocating his family to Chestnut Street.” Seeing that Rees did not understand, she added, “That is where the Derbys live. And Mr. Elias Derby is the wealthiest man in the city.”

“Although, if Mr. Crowninshield goes forward with his plans to fill in the Commons and build more houses, Mr. Boothe's dwelling will be in a desirable area, too,” Twig put in.

“And would he, do you think?” Rees kept his attention upon Xenobia. “Would Mr. Boothe have removed his family to Chestnut Street?”

“Maybe.” Xenobia bit her lip. “Maybe not. Miss Betsy, who performed the role of hostess in the absence of her mother, is getting married.”

“Miss Peggy?” asked Twig. “Couldn't she do it?”

“Hmmm.” Xenobia smiled as though her imagination presented a funny scene. “I don't think so. I can't see her taking tea with the other women and gossiping. Miss Peggy has no patience and even her sister's feminine airs irritate her. Mr. Boothe needs a wife who can be a gracious hostess.”

“And do you know the name and address of the woman he was seeing?” Rees asked. “Would she do?”

“I don't know. And why would you want her direction? She couldn't have murdered Mr. Boothe, for the exact reason you judged me innocent,” Xenobia said. “She is a weak woman.”

Rees's estimation of her intelligence rose. “Maybe Mr. Boothe told her something. Or maybe another suitor, a jealous one who wanted to claim the lady for his own, wanted Mr. Boothe out of the way.” When Xenobia did not speak, Rees leaned forward. “I know you are loyal, Xenobia, and I promise to be discreet. But, if I'm to identify Mr. Boothe's killer, I need to know everything.”

“I don't know where she lives. I don't even know for certain if there was a mistress.” She sighed. “Anstiss always believed he had one, but that may have been jealousy talking.”

“Could he have been on his way to see this woman when he was murdered?”

“Perhaps. But we don't know. He frequently went out in the evenings. The tunnels also lead to the counting houses and the warehouses on the docks.”

“And there are several brothels there,” Twig said. Xenobia turned a glance upon him that could curdle milk.

“I will not judge,” Rees said. Xenobia raised her eyes to him.

“You must understand. Mr. Boothe was a man of sterling moral character, but he was, after all, a man. Anyway, it's more likely,” she added quickly, “that he was involved in some private business dealings.”

“Smuggling you mean?” Rees said. Xenobia sniffed, offended.

“Of course not. He would never do that.”

Rees did not argue but his silence was heavy with doubt. The furtive nature of Mr. Boothe's departures certainly suggested something secret and possibly illegal.

“Is smuggling common here in Salem?” Rees asked, assuming it must be. What port town did not boast its smugglers?

“I don't know. Many of the grand houses have tunnels that lead to the docks. You must ask William. I don't know much about them.” Rees glanced at Twig.

“The tunnels are for the wealthy,” Twig said, adding with passion, “but I am certain Jacob Boothe was not a smuggler. I've heard only praise for his honesty. Besides, there's plenty of money in Salem. No need to smuggle. And it would be difficult anyway. The ships wait outside of the harbor for Mr. Oliver, the customs agent.”