Nobody's Secret (20 page)

“Hurry, Emily, we’ll be late,” Mrs. Dickinson scolded, draping a shawl over her shoulders.

Emily wrestled with a glove that was proving to be as rebellious as she felt. The last thing she wanted to do was to spend several hours in church—not when she was so close to answering all her questions.

“Emily, don’t fuss so,” Vinnie whispered in her ear. “All your suspects will be there.”

“That’s true,” Emily admitted, as the glove suddenly capitulated and slipped onto her hand.

Vinnie’s prediction proved accurate before they had traveled half a block. The first person she saw walking up the hill toward the church was Mr. Ripley. Emily hung back to let him catch her up.

“Mr. Ripley,” she said. “Good morning.”

He seemed ill at ease, and his complexion had a green tinge that made her wonder whether he had the influenza. He acknowledged her with a nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively.

“I have very little time,” Emily told him, keeping a sharp eye on her mother’s back. “So let me assure you: I know everything.”

“What?” he gulped. “You can’t possibly . . . ”

“The Langstons. The false codicil. Your bribe.”

His eyes bulged. “So it
was
you! I saw that the blotting paper was missing the next day, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe that a half-mad young girl . . . ”

“Trust me, Mr. Ripley, the reports of my instability are greatly exaggerated,” Emily said. “Yes, I took the blotting paper. But even more damning for your case, I have the original.”

“But how?”

“Never mind. Your true dilemma lies before you: Do you confess everything you’ve done to my father, or do
I
tell him?”

He stopped in his tracks. “I can’t. I would lose my position.”

“Mr. Ripley, you are in danger of losing your liberty,” Emily said flatly. “You could be prosecuted for fraud, if not worse!”

“Worse?” His voice rose an octave. A dozen paces ahead, Mrs. Dickinson’s brisk step faltered for a moment, but she kept moving toward the church as though she were tied to the end of the rope that rang the bell calling the congregation to service.

“Conspiracy to commit murder,” Emily said darkly.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Mr. Ripley protested. “The Langstons swore to me he was dead. They told me the paperwork had gone astray in foreign parts. I believed them.”

“Especially when they offered a generous fee?” Emily’s voice was implacable, as her father’s would no doubt be.

“The fee was more than welcome—but more than an honest job was worth. I should have been more suspicious,” Mr. Ripley admitted. “When Mr. Wentworth came to the office and I saw that he was alive . . . I tried to do the right thing. You saw my affidavit. I admitted everything so he could recover his money.”

“I did see it. It’s the only thing that might save you. My father returns from Boston tomorrow afternoon. Tell him everything and trust to his mercy.”

Mr. Ripley swallowed hard and nodded. Without a word, he turned and walked in the direction he had come, toward home and, Emily hoped, possible redemption.

Emily quickened her own steps to walk abreast with Vinnie. “I think he’s going to confess to Father,” she whispered.

“That’s a relief, to my mind,” Vinnie said.

“To mine as well. This business of playing with people’s lives is very upsetting,” Emily said. “Who am I to threaten a man’s livelihood and liberty?”

“You are my brave Emily, who is tireless in her pursuit of truth.” Vinnie tucked her hand inside her sister’s elbow. “Look. Dr. Gridley is back.”

Dr. Gridley was waiting at the corner of Amity and South Pleasant streets. It was obvious to Emily that he was waiting for her. He greeted Mrs. Dickinson and asked to speak to Emily privately.

Mrs. Dickinson grudgingly granted her permission. “But I expect Emily to be at the service on time,” she ordered.

Dr. Gridley led Emily toward the porch of Orr’s Apothecary. “I hear that our body has a name.”

Emily nodded. “James Wentworth. He’s the nephew of the Langstons and Sam Wentworth.”

“Did you receive my letter?”

“I did.” Emily’s thoughts were churning rapidly—she needed the doctor to answer a few questions before she told him the latest developments. “I, too, suspect poison. In fact, I have a particular one in mind. What do you know about foxglove?”

“Foxglove?” He looked surprised. “It contains digitalis. It could easily stop a healthy young man’s heart.”

“Excellent,” Emily said, rubbing her hands. “That fits very well with my idea.” She instantly regretted the satisfaction in her tone. She must never forget that James was dead, and if she were correct in her assumptions, someone would be arrested for murder, perhaps this very day.

“I understand, my dear. Sometimes I’m so excited to make a clever diagnosis that I forget what it means to my patient.” Dr. Gridley patted her arm. “So digitalis fits your theory? Well, it’s simple to make—the plants are in every formal garden in town. I also use it for heart medicine. It stops a normal heart, but if someone’s heart is beating too quickly, it can slow it down to a safe rate.”

Emily caught her breath. Dr. Gridley had just given her the final clue.

“So if someone took digitalis for heart trouble,” she said slowly, “he could drink a dose that would kill a healthy man?”

“With no ill effects,” Dr. Gridley confirmed.

“And what if the healthy man suddenly saw everything in a greenish hue?”

“That’s a symptom of digitalis poisoning,” he said, excitement in his voice. “Are you certain of your facts?”

Emily nodded.

“Well,” the doctor said, rubbing his hands. “It’s easy to test for. I’ll have a word with the authorities and perform the test immediately.”

Emily paused and then told him the bad news. “James Wentworth was buried yesterday.”

“Already? That’s ridiculous! My examination wasn’t complete. We’ll have to exhume the body.” Dr. Gridley looked as though he was about to seek out the constable.

Emily couldn’t bear to think of her friend’s body being violated again.

“Wait,” she said, and her resolute voice stopped him in his tracks. “I might have another way.” From her purse, she pulled out the flask and handkerchief.

“What is this?” Dr. Gridley asked.

“This flask belonged to James Wentworth. I have a witness who saw him drink from it just before the world turned green and he collapsed.”

Dr. Gridley stared at her as though she possessed magical powers. “You have been busy, Miss Dickinson.”

“More busy than you could possibly imagine,” she said. “Look!” She opened the flask and poured a tiny amount of the liquid onto the handkerchief.

“Miss Dickinson, we’ll need that!”

“There is plenty left—but see what I find on the linen?” She held out the handkerchief. Specks of leaves dotted the brownish stain.

Speechlessly, Dr. Gridley held out his hand to collect the handkerchief. He smelled it. “Elderberry wine. An unusually sweet drink for a young man.”

“Especially when he . . . when most young men would prefer brandy,” Emily said, recalling the aroma in the smithy’s stable.

Dr. Gridley didn’t notice her aside. Touching his finger to the handkerchief, he smelt the leaves and then tasted them gingerly. “Digitalis,” he confirmed. “What a dastardly thing to do! You know, Miss Dickinson, I have to take this to the constable.”

Nodding reluctantly, Emily said, “I know.”

“He’ll have some questions for you, I’m sure.”

She stifled a groan, thinking of her mother’s reaction.

Dr. Gridley let out an exclamation. “There’s Constable Chapman now! Excuse me.” He abandoned her, walking toward the church so rapidly that a man of lesser dignity would have been running. He met Reverend Colton on the steps of the church, under the wide portico. Standing to one side was the constable. Emily could not hear what was said, but she saw the doctor gesturing widely and speaking with passion. Her name must have been mentioned, because all three men glanced in her direction before their animated conversation began again.

Emily watched from a distance. She knew she should give the affidavit to the authorities, but she preferred to wait a day until her father returned. He would know what to do.

“Are you finally coming?” Mrs. Dickinson said at her shoulder. “Your secret investigation is not more important than going to church.”

Emily wanted to disagree. To her, church was a cold and artificial place to worship God. Unsure of the depths of her own faith, she knew she felt it more deeply and with more clarity when she was out of doors. James Wentworth had understood that. Would he have preferred to worship along the banks of Amethyst Brook.

“I’m coming, Mother,” she said dutifully.

Vinnie was waiting near the church steps. Emily ignored her questioning looks because she had just spied another set of late arrivals. Coming from College Avenue, the Langstons appeared in the same order in which they had attended the funeral: first Henry and his mother, then Mr. Langston, and finally Ursula. Even Horace Goodman was there. Emily knew he would enter the church by the same door, but would immediately go upstairs to the gallery, where the freed blacks sat.

Only Sam Wentworth was missing. She hoped he had recovered from his heart attack, and that his medicine had proved effective. It was a small comfort that the means used to kill her friend could also save a life.

Constable Chapman saw the Langstons, too, and beckoned them to him. They looked reluctant, but it was too late for them to reverse course. Reverend Colton seemed torn between wanting to hear this conversation and starting the service on time. He kept looking at his pocket watch and glancing inside the Meeting House, where his congregation was waiting.

Vinnie’s keen eyes had seen it all. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

“Almost,” Emily said absently, watching the reluctant progress of the Langstons toward the law’s representative.

“Who did it?” Vinnie said. “I hope it’s not Henry.”

Emily held up a hand to forestall her sister. “I need proof before I tell you.”

“That’s just cruel of you. Now that Dr. Gridley is back and is talking with the constable, it’s no longer your responsibility.”

“I’ve run out of time,” Emily said resentfully. “It’s so unfair.”

“That’s just prideful, Emily Elizabeth Dickinson!” Vinnie scolded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The important thing is that your precious Mr. Nobody gets justice—not who obtains it for him.”

Emily glared at her sister. Of course it mattered, she thought. “Mr. Nobody and I talked about our lives having a purpose. Getting justice for his murder is my life’s meaning right now.”

Mr. and Mrs. Langston were almost at the church door when Ursula broke away and walked rapidly around the corner of the church into the College grounds. Intent on the upcoming interview, none of her family members appeared to notice her departure.

Emily gave her sister a scant moment of attention. “Tell Mother I felt faint and went home,” she said. And she set off to follow Ursula.

“Emily!” She heard Vinnie behind her. “What are you doing?”

“Getting my proof!”

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.

Emily half-ran, keeping Ursula’s gray dress in her sights. Emily’s breath grew shallow in her chest. She coughed, and when she took her hand away from her mouth she saw specks of blood on her white glove. The truth she was chasing didn’t frighten her as much as those drops of blood, but she forced herself to keep moving. Her weakness would not prevent her from catching a murderer.

Ursula detoured around the College dormitory and then made her way back to her house, which she entered by the front door. Emily snuck around back to the flower room. Through the window, she saw Ursula shoving fragments of foxgloves into an old sack, to which she added the contents of a jar filled with oblong white tablets.

As though she sensed she was being watched, Ursula froze and glanced toward the window. Emily ducked behind a large lilac bush. A moment later, the back door banged open and Emily watched as Ursula ran to the shed next to the barn and hid the sack. Emily wondered if Ursula knew that was also Horace’s hiding place.