No Rest for the Dove (10 page)

Charlotte sat back thoughtfully.

“In the river marshes,” Longfellow repeated. “Where there are the Devil’s own mosquitoes at night. The heel appears to have been prised off.”

“As if someone hoped to find something inside?”

“Something that might also have been concealed between button halves. From what you’ve just told me, I think Lahte could have been seeking the hidden message of a lover.”

“If we assume the dead man to have been this husband from Milan.”

“Quite a distance to come, but possible. And if we suppose Lahte recognized the fellow, it would explain his earlier shock.”

“Yes …”

“If that is our answer, I don’t suppose there is any great hurry to prove it. I’m inclined to allow him time to tell us the whole story, which he seems to have already begun.
He is, after all, a gentleman. More important than that, he’s here as my guest. And a host has a certain duty—”

“You’re convinced there’s no further danger?”

“From Lahte?”

“Or perhaps
to
him?”

“Since this supposed husband has accidentally removed himself, I would imagine Il Colombo is safe enough. Though he might consider himself fortunate to have suffered no more than a fright. We know terrible things are sometimes done by those who love—like the Moor—not wisely, but too well.”

Charlotte cocked her head.

It was almost as if, thought Longfellow, she heard something he could not. Then both sat in silence, each absorbed in further speculation, until it was time to light the candles.

“WHAT IS IT
now?” young Dr. Warren asked when he had accepted a glass of sherry. Even by the low light of the tapers, they could see that his color was extraordinarily high as his pale blue eyes scanned his summoners.

“That, of course,” replied Longfellow, “is what we are supposing you will tell us. If you are able. As I wrote in my letter, we know very little. However, certain suspicions have been raised.”

“Suspicions? I see,” Warren replied with an engaging smile, examining Charlotte even more closely. “Are you keeping well, Mrs. Willett? But I will answer this, first, by my own observation. Remarkably well! A fine complexion, indeed. By the way, I have a message for you from a young friend. He begs to be remembered fondly, and is concerned for one of your cows.”

“Delilah is much improved,” said Charlotte, returning his look of amusement. “But I’m afraid she, too, misses
someone who deserted us for a greater world of worthy gentlemen. Is Lem happy in town? Is he lonely, do you think?”

“Lonely? Certainly not! I myself have seen him often lately, and I’ve presented him to a number of our better citizens. It is my hope that he’ll find their acquaintance improving.”

“And his studies?”

“Oh, he will do well enough with those. But he’s likely to pick up as much of use to him in Boston as in Cambridge. However, let us return to my own small skills. You suspect,” Warren now asked Richard Longfellow, “that the deceased may have come here only recently, from abroad?”

“We believe that to be a possibility.”

“It may add another dimension to our problem. Still, if he fell from his horse, I don’t imagine I’ll have much doubt as to the cause of death.”

“If you can tell us that is what happened, I’ll be glad to hear it.”

“Suspicions, you say. At the moment, I am even more interested in what you
don’t
say. But let’s go and see. Then, I will give you my professional opinion.”

Making their way through the warm darkness, they found their lanterns swayed by varying gusts of wind. Soon, trees above leaned down as if inquiring into their mission, until a field’s breadth freed them. Seeing the lights of the village below, Charlotte suspected some of her neighbors enjoyed late reading, while others might be sharing a final glass of comfort before going off to bed. None would offer her, or her companions, such a glass tonight. Their visit would be with none of the living.

They passed among the first stones of the churchyard, and walked on beneath waving branches to the
cellar’s slanted door. Longfellow soon had the door folded back, allowing a current of air to freshen what lay within. Dr. Warren, alone, made his way down the wooden steps. They saw the light of his lantern steady as he positioned it next to the body; then he opened his physician’s bag and began his work.

While they waited above, Longfellow and Charlotte peered toward each unseen call from the surrounding graveyard, until at length they were relieved to see a bat hunting cheerfully above in their lantern’s light. They enjoyed its clever movements, watching as it wheeled and veered, until at last Joseph Warren emerged. Longfellow quickly closed the cellar door, but the physician showed no sign of being ready to go on. Instead, he sat upon the grass to recover himself.

“Well?”

“Clearly, there was a substantial injury to the head. If he was thrown and fell onto a rock, his death could have been an accident. The smell of wine first convinced me that this was likely, for a drunken man is rarely a careful one. Not a medical opinion; one of personal experience. Then I examined the material that must have come from the stomach, and I began to have other ideas … as you did, I gather. The stuff is suspiciously dark, and seems to have caked in a manner that makes it flake even now, if one applies the blade of a knife. I’ve taken a sample to moisten later. The strength of its color could tell me if blood is indeed present, as well as red wine.”

“Do you think there is any danger of contagion?”

“I did, for a few moments. Black vomit may mean yellow fever, particularly in one who has lately visited a southern port. I don’t mind telling you I was hardly pleased to suspect it! But as he did not appear to be jaundiced—”

“Something I concluded as well.”

“Yes, but he
was
unhealthy, I should say—though without asking a patient for symptoms, it is always difficult to be sure. I did look closely at his mouth. And into it. Have you done so?”

When Richard and Charlotte both shook their heads, Dr. Warren managed a smile. “You should have, for it would have surprised you. What I found there leads me to suppose this man could have been poisoned.”

“What!” his listeners exclaimed in unison.

“Of course, there is already considerable decomposition …” Warren took a draught of air through his nose, as if to clear away the lingering scent. “… and yet, I’m reasonably certain there are burns in the mouth, both on the tongue and inner cheeks. These suggest to me the introduction of a caustic substance. Unless, of course, they’re ulcers from an advanced oral malady. If that is the case, then his last days were anything but easy! Yet I suspect there may have been something taken with the wine, which would have caused his stomach to burn and bleed, as well.”

“If this is true, Warren, what do you think it was?”

“I can’t tell you that, exactly. But I can guess. I’ve seen similar damage when a patient—a child—accidentally swallowed salts of wood sorrel left carelessly on a table, by someone removing an ink stain. The result, I am sorry to say, was fatal. Salts of lead, too, are extremely corrosive. So is ordinary lye, as we’re all warned, for its burn can be both immediate and quite damaging, depending on the strength of the solution. Arsenical preparations usually take a bit more time, but they, too, can lead to accidental death—or an intentional one, on occasion. That, of course, is the interesting question here. If it
was
poison, was it administered by his own hand, or by someone else’s?”

Longfellow expelled his breath abruptly. “Can you tell us more, with certainty?”

“Not without a closer examination.”

“I see.”

“Do you know yet who he was?” the doctor then asked.

“No. But I’ve sent a sketch of him to our friend Montagu.”

“Indeed? At least it might keep your esteemed new brother occupied for a while. I presume you know many of us are displeased by what the captain has been up to lately.”

“And what, specifically, is that?”

“He seeks to learn of our private discussions, when they are none of his affair.”

“Discussions directed against the Crown, perhaps?”

“
Against
is too strong a word, Richard—and one that is politically unwise to use, just now. Let us say … that some of your friends in Boston, who still meet regularly in the Long Room—where you remain welcome, by the way—these men hope to remind the world of the hard-won rights of all Englishmen!”

Longfellow noticed that Charlotte had wandered a little distance away, apparently engrossed in her own thoughts. “Well, Joseph,” he said at length, “let us first see what we can do about unraveling the fate of one man, before you go off directing the future of us all. At the moment, I can hardly believe this new theory of yours. And it is the opinion of Mrs. Willett that our corpse might well have choked to death. Can you … perhaps … look further into the matter?”

Warren gave the selectman a questioning look. “I’ll take him with me if you like, and give him a proper burial later—if you will lend me a conveyance and a sheet of canvas. The guard at the Neck does not look kindly on unknown bodies going in or out of town, but at the house of a physician I know in Dorchester … I’ll see if we can discover something more. In the meanwhile, if you
have any true cause to call it murder … and if any man you have suspicions of had the chance to meet this fellow alone—”

“I still believe, Joseph, that you’re chasing shadows.”

“Perhaps. Yet surely you’ve noticed that they are generally thrown by substantial bodies.” Dr. Warren swung his lantern, causing Longfellow’s own shadow to sway behind him. “And where,” the physician added, “is your constable?”

“In Providence,” said Longfellow. “In the morning, I’ll see about doing his business for him. I suppose someone should examine the place where the death occurred. I assume you’ll send us a report, once you’ve finished with our stranger? I’d like to have something in hand when we put a name to him.”

“With pleasure,” Warren replied. “But you may not get it tomorrow. Much of importance goes on at the moment in Boston.”

“May I offer you refreshment, at least, before you rush off? I have a guest from Italy staying with me, who has no interest in our politics at all.”

“That
would
be refreshing,” said the physician, unable to guess the half of what was in store.

Sunday, August 18

A
ROSY SUN
lit the moist, green world once more as Richard Longfellow walked out to the barn to saddle his latest acquisition, a dark mare he had decided to call Venus. Both steed and rider, he supposed, would profit from an hour of exercise, before the less fortunate of the two sat down on a hard pew to endure another of Reverend Rowe’s numbing sermons. At least, thought Longfellow, he might find something new to ponder while the reverend went on and on.

The air was quiet, the grass thick with fresh dew, and the gaining sun, though it had a distinctly brassy tinge, managed to lift up his spirits as Longfellow led Venus out to the lawn. Still, he was plagued by uncertainty. Could he have been wrong, and Warren right, when a possible crime had been discussed the night before? Was he further
wrong this morning in neglecting to stop at Mrs. Willett’s door with his chaise, so that she, too, might view the place where Caleb Knox had found the corpse? He decided he would later blame the animal beneath him, who snorted with delight as she picked up her pace along the road. There was also the unseemliness of directing a chaise away from the meeting house on a Sunday morning, when all others would be traveling in the opposite direction. A bit of vigorous exercise was one thing, but an expedition, for whatever reason, would certainly be remarked upon. Once again, he decided that Charlotte would have to rely on what he told her. There would quite probably be little to see, after all.