The Constable's Tale (3 page)

“I found them fascinating,” said Toby. “Although you have your share of slackers and miscreants in North Carolina, I have met enough good people here to know it is one of His Majesty’s finest plantations.”

McLeod’s old eyes, worn from the day’s work, became merry. “Mister Woodyard, you have got yourself a real prize here.”

“I know,” Harry said. He felt a glow inside and at the same time worried that Toby might say something further that would challenge the judge’s good opinion.

“I would be glad if you would join the sheriff and me in a glass before you make your way home,” McLeod said. He gestured toward one of the tables that tavern employees were noisily hauling back into the room.

“The pleasure would be ours,” said Toby while Harry was trying to put together a courtly response. All he could think about at the moment was the overpowering smell of medicine. He was tempted to ask about the judge’s bad cold and whether his treatment was helping but decided silence would be the safest course. The
Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour
were very clear about avoiding frivolous remarks when conversing with a person of quality.

As they were sitting down, McLeod made a signal to two men who had been lingering near the door. Harry had noticed them earlier at court. One looked to be in his middle years, wearing the plain black cassock of an Anglican minister. The other was more remarkable in appearance. He was about ten years older than Harry and a little taller, with a trim physique and military bearing. Smooth, sun-blushed skin and hair the color gold might turn if it could be burned. He nearly glimmered in a well-tailored light blue jacket with buff facings and silver buttons. The man’s only visible flaw was a scar that curved up from the corner of his mouth back to midcheek, like an extension of his mouth, forming a fixed smile. A farming accident, possibly. Or a saber cut. He looked like the sort of man who might engage in trials of honor.

“I would like you to meet my houseguests,” said McLeod. “Harry, Toby, may I present Reverend Ian Fletcher and Colonel Richard Ayerdale?”

The golden man’s last name made an echo in some corner of his mind, but at the moment he could not think why.

McLeod said, “The reverend has come from London on a mission for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts. He is on his way up the seacoast, from Charleston to Boston, to evaluate the state of the church in the provinces.”

The minister allowed himself a smile and a stiff bow.

McLeod said, “And Richard is from Williamsburg. He is a colonel of the Virginia militia, in our midst on behalf of the British Army to judge our readiness for the rest of this year’s campaign in Canada. I am also proud to announce that he is soon to wed my granddaughter, who has just come back to me from Scotland.”

McLeod supplied the part about the granddaughter in an offhanded way, as if an afterthought. When it sank in, it disrupted Harry’s thinking so badly that he caught only bits of the rest. That Ayerdale was from a family of Virginia planters dating to the previous century. That one of his great-grandpaps had relocated himself and a hoard of gold, plate, and jewels from England and the civil war that was going on there. That the family’s network of plantations between the York and James Rivers was one of the largest individual landholdings in British America. And so on. Finding himself awash in his own past, Harry struggled to pay attention to any of this. He was drowning in recollections of a lost and, he thought he had tricked himself into believing, forgotten love.

Maddie.

He had the impression that everyone at the table, including his wife, was staring at him but only while he was not looking. Even more nightmarish, it seemed they were guessing every thought going through his head exactly at its moment of passage. Especially Toby. Shortly after their first bedding, while Toby was still under bond, he had confessed about Maddie McLeod. At least given the general outline of the story. He had no idea how much more detail she had gathered from gossips. So far, nothing of it had made its way into Toby’s diary—not
as far as he knew. With time and distance, Harry had more or less forgotten about Maddie. But every so often he had to remind himself not to think about the girl with curly red hair who loved riddles.

He was trying to make this one of those times when he realized that Toby was talking. Looking cool and unfazed, she congratulated Ayerdale on his engagement and asked how he’d met his future bride. It sounded like polite conversation.

“It was last August, while I was in Scotland on some tobacco business,” said Ayerdale. “We found ourselves together in Glasgow at a birthnight ball for the king. I was immediately charmed by Maddie’s beauty and clever conversation.”

Harry noticed that Ayerdale’s smile never fully revealed his teeth. A sure sign, he took pleasure in guessing, of dental problems.

“I don’t suppose we Scotch are yet allowed to resume our fashion of wearing tartan to the king’s celebrations,” said McLeod. “I still have my father’s plaidie tucked somewhere among my things awaiting the lifting of the proscription. God willing that I live that long.”

“Unfortunately, memories of the forty-five are still too fresh. The wearing of plaid is granted only to members of the king’s brigades. So, too, the playing of the bagpipe. Those are the legacies of your bonnie prince.”

“He ain’t my bonnie prince. The man is a lunatic.”

Ayerdale said, “There were rumors when I was last in London that he persists in skulking about Europe, trying to raise support for another Jacobite army. For all anyone knows, he might be plotting with the French at this very moment to cross the Channel.”

Harry remembered now why he was rarely invited into the company of the judge and his friends. He knew little about the current topic and had nothing to add. But Toby seemed to be following right along. All turned toward her when she laughed.

“I am sorry,” she said, “I was just imagining French soldiers sitting down to a haggis alongside tablemates with bagpipes and filibegs.”

“The haggis served with a proper sprinkling of peat-bog whisky, I should hope,” said McLeod.

“The French are seeing pipes and filibegs aplenty in Canada right now,” said Ayerdale. “God willing, it will be the last thing many of them see on this earth. Two regiments of highlanders were with General Wolfe when they entered the Saint Lawrence River four weeks ago. I will be joining them directly. I hope to be there for the final assault on Quebec.”

“I trust you are finding our poor province helpful in those efforts,” said Sheriff Carruthers.

“North Carolina has done its share. Especially for a plantation so far removed from the immediate threat. Your men contributed much during the second march against Fort Duquesne. Secretary Pitt has requested that his personal thanks be conveyed to Governor Dobbs, and I intend to do so before I leave.”

“Thanks be to Mister Pitt and his determination to finally rid this country of the armies of the pope,” said the churchman. It was the first complete sentence Harry had heard Fletcher utter. Harry had the fleeting thought that, for a preacher, he was not overly talkative. But his words had an energizing effect on McLeod, who abruptly raised his glass and said, “Long live Pitt.”

“And God save the king,” said Fletcher, triggering another round.

“We must hurry off,” said McLeod, bringing his empty glass down hard on the table. “I am planning a small supper at my house this evening in honor of my granddaughter’s return and the forthcoming nuptials.” Then, to Toby, “Unfortunately, we have run out of space at our table. Otherwise, we should be pleased to have you and your husband join us.” Toby took in this blatant lie with a smile.

*

Cogdell’s was filling up with some of New Bern’s better people coming for an evening’s eating and drinking and visiting. The menu offering
was the owner’s famous rendition of roast beef. The tavern served beef at least once a week, most often boiled up with potatoes and carrots and turnips and what other vegetables were ready in the garden at the time, all cooked together in the same pot. Roasting required a few extra steps and more judgment as to the amount of heat applied for the best result and generally was reserved for holidays and other special occasions, which included the last day of the Court of Pleas and Quarterly Sessions.

Harry recognized a gaunt face at a nearby table. Since his arrival in New Bern from Philadelphia two months prior, Noah Burke had been teaching reading and arithmetic to Andrew Campbell, the nine-year-old son of Edward and Anne Campbell on their small plantation to the northwest of New Bern. His wages consisted of lodging and meals. This week the family had given him leave to take a temporary paying job. In the absence of any available grandmothers, Burke was supervising children whose parents were involved in court business. Now relieved of his charges, he was free to drink.

After they had eaten, Harry ordered another round of ale. Toby declined, saying she was tired and ready to go home. Harry promised they would start back well before dark. But after his glass arrived he said he wanted to pay a social call on Constable Blinn and his wife, who had just come in. By the time he returned to their table, a half hour had passed and Toby and Martin were gone.

Harry rejoined the Blinns. He was fully drunk when a young man in tradesmen’s clothes burst in, holding a wailing infant.

CHAPTER 3

20: The Gestures of the Body must be Suited to the discourse you are upon.

—
R
ULES OF
C
IVILITY

“MY NAME IS NICHOLAS,” THE MAN SAID AND THEN TRIED TO TELL
his whole story in one breath. Horrible murder at a plantation. Bodies placed in strange positions. Considerable blood. Only the infant left alive.

Harry and Blinn brought Nicholas to a seat and Blinn’s wife scooped up the baby. They quickly determined the victims were Noah Burke’s employers. Shock upon shock. Although far from the richest family in Craven County, the Campbells were among the best liked.

Trying not to slur his words, Harry summoned Burke. “Do you understand? The family you’ve been working for has been killed.”

The schoolmaster straightened up. Pursing his eyebrows, he said with careful enunciation, “Please, call me Noah.”

“When were you last at their house?”

“I left the farm on Sunday. Everything was fine then.”

The tinker, trembling and face dripping sweat, met Harry’s questioning look. “I got no idea how long them bodies been there. I never seen murdered people before.”

Harry started for the door. Blinn caught his arm. “Where are you going?” he said.

“Home. I need to make sure my wife is safe.” He turned again to go, but Blinn held him fast.

“You are the county constable,” Blinn said. “You need to ride out to the Campbell place, see what you can before the sun goes down. I’ll go along, but you have to go.”

“Toby comes first,” Harry said, giving Blinn a severe look.

“I can ride out, check on Toby,” said a man at the next table. Bledsoe was a member of the town watch and a childhood acquaintance of Harry’s. Tough and reliable. “I can start out now,” he said, “make sure she’s all right. You go ahead and do your duty.”

“We should notify the sheriff first,” said Blinn. ”And the judge.”

“Why?” said Harry. “It’ll be dark soon. If we’re going out there, we need to hurry.”

He tried to clear his head while he spoke. This was easily the most severe crime that had happened since he had taken up his commission. Since he could remember, in fact. He saw the value to his reputation of handling it correctly. And a little part of him welcomed the excuse to drop in on McLeod’s supper.

Three other members of the watch volunteered to go along. Blinn’s wife said she would look after the baby. Within minutes they, along with Noah Burke, were in their saddles and fast trotting toward the high ground near the waterfront on which McLeod’s house stood.

The late afternoon light was turning golden by the time they arrived. Harry heard music inside. From previous visits he recognized the throaty drone of McLeod’s viola da gamba, which the old man practiced every day. Now he was playing counternotes to a high, silvery voice singing an intricate tune. A voice Harry had not heard in a decade.

“There’s been a killing,” Harry said to the man wearing the family’s arms on a gold neck chain who answered the door. “I need to speak with the sheriff.”

“They’re almost finished.” The man made a hushing sound as he let them into the hallway. “Please wait here.”

Harry was ready to push him aside, but Blinn grasped his arm and whispered, “Those bodies will wait another minute or two. We don’t want to upset the judge.”

From where he was standing, Harry could see into the parlor. Candlelight made it look even more sumptuous than he remembered. Rugs from Persia. Darkly gleaming furniture. Splashes of silver, including an ornate tea service. He recognized among the guests several large-scale planters, including two members of the Governor’s Council and three legislators. The county clerk, solicitor, and surveyor. All with their ladies. One of the town’s richest storekeepers, a man by the name of du Plessis, was fussing with a snuffbox, seemingly little interested in the performance. Harry also spotted Reverend Reed, the Christ Church rector who had conducted his and Toby’s wedding, and beside him the visiting English minister, Fletcher. Sitting in a corner chair, looking at Maddie with an expression that made Harry think of a cat that had found an unguarded dish of cream, was Richard Ayerdale.

Maddie stood facing the company in a gown of green silk with a low bodice that displayed the pillowy contours of a now fully mature woman. Her red hair was somewhat darker than Harry recalled and done up in the French manner, high and curly. Skin as he remembered it, near as pale as Christmas eggnog, and gem-like green eyes. Her slightly breathy soprano weaved through the viola notes like silver thread in
an old tapestry. Harry began to feel light-headed. The rest of the world seemed to be melting away, leaving only himself and this vision.

Applause broke his trance. Brushing past the servant, he stepped into the parlor, eyes fixed on Maddie. She gave no sign of recognition. He guessed his appearance had changed as well. He directed himself to Sheriff Carruthers, who was in the front row looking amazingly transformed from his earlier appearance in court, having traded his hunting shirt for a dark purple evening suit with white ruffling at the throat and wrists.