Too Soon for Flowers (13 page)

“No, I would imagine not. But can you
prove
that it was not responsible?”

“No more than you can prove the reverse,” Longfellow replied, unable to mask his impatience. Hearing it, Rowe pounced.

“Have I not warned you that inoculation is the work of Satan? Through your foul ministrations, you may well have helped this child to become his victim! For she has surely been snatched from the world before her time, with no chance to prepare for the next!”

“I don’t yet know
whose
victim she might be,” Longfellow interposed, “but does it not seem strange to you that
Satan routinely takes only a few of the inoculated, while far more die of the disease among those who remain as the Lord made them? I would think a man with a God-given brain and a wish to preserve himself could see what is obvious.”

The preacher grew rigid with righteous anger. “If a man dies in a natural state, we can at least be certain his death is a part of Jehovah’s Plan!”

“Yet Cotton Mather, surely one of our most celebrated preachers, encouraged inoculation,” Longfellow volleyed.

“Yes, Doctor Mather did,” Rowe returned with a sneer, for he had little sympathy for the old Puritans or for their learning. “But Jonathan Edwards, a
greater
man of God, refused the practice, even while he ministered to the savages on the frontier—heathens, it should be remembered, whom God chooses to destroy by smallpox
in far greater numbers
than our own people! Reverend Edwards rightly labored to save only their souls, while their lives were taken in a part of the Great Design. Yet the Lord chose to preserve
him
from smallpox! I will admit Edwards later fell from grace—he should never have accepted the presidency of that renegade college, at Princeton—but when he met his fate, it was a result, you may recall, sir, of
inoculation!”
Reverend Rowe’s voice boomed in triumph.

Longfellow slouched back into his chair. “Tell me, Rowe,” he finally asked, staring at his guest, “have you had the smallpox yourself?”

“When I was a boy. Through God’s grace, I recovered.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“I cannot say. I imagine He had good reason.”

“Reason! And now, you think it His judgment, His justice, when anyone else who sickens from an illness does not recover?” Yet again, Longfellow painfully recalled the pitifully swollen face and dark, matted hair of his fiancée, Eleanor Howard, as she lay dying.

“His ways are beyond our knowing,” Rowe returned, pleased with this ultimate answer.

Longfellow closed his eyes. The man was insane—further argument would be pointless. Years ago, he had seen this particular minister for what he was—something far worse than the average, which was bad enough! Here was a zealot skewed by the rumblings and bleatings of the Great Awakening … a reformer who loved the idea of Hell even more than the Puritan founders of the Bay Colony had enjoyed their hopes of an orderly Heaven. Most of the descendants of those paragons of old Boston no longer spoke of Predestination, of course. Instead, modern men proved their worth by seeking material things with which they adorned their inherited City on the Hill. They had grown powerful and secure, on earth at least—even if they were arguably less prepared to enter the world beyond.

Rowe’s kind had taken a different path. They craved power that sprang from fear, while they sought out and preyed upon human doubt hiding beneath many a modern veneer, in many a guilty heart. In this, they opposed rational, mercantile, and scientific beliefs—things all men of good sense in the community revered. Flying in the face of Reason, these smoke-belchers were men quite capable of anything. Rowe, angelic? Ha! Although Satan, he suddenly recalled, had once been an angel, too …

“What about the boy?”

“Mmmm?” said Longfellow, called back from distant fields.

“What about young Sloan? What does he have to say?”

“Will? At the moment, he’s not here.”

Rowe’s interest increased. “An evil sign,” he concluded, his eyes roaming around the room. “I recently spoke to them both, prior to their nuptials, and I cannot say the pairing seemed likely to fare well. If you believe the death of Phoebe Morris was
not
caused by the inoculation …”

“You think Will could have murdered his own intended?”

“From what I knew of her, she might well have driven a man to acts of shame. Young women do kindle men’s passions, and Sloan is a fiery youth, as we all know! They must have had a quarrel. It’s likely she didn’t respect him as she should—these days, a fault increasingly common among women. If she rejected him, he could well have lost his reason! For even the most vigilant—” Rowe stopped, and looked searchingly at the man before him.

“Yes?” asked Longfellow, waiting.

The reverend wiped his lips with a handkerchief, and dabbed at his forehead, before he concluded.

“When you find him, Will Sloan must be questioned thoroughly, for as long as it may take.”

“As long as what takes?”

“As long as it takes to get him to admit to his sin! For if he has fled, he has all but admitted his guilt.”

“You think so? Unfortunately, I have little experience with interrogating men, especially to discover their souls. Perhaps what we need is a Grand Inquisitor. I am only an elected official, trying to do my duty. To that end, I’ll confer with Constable Wise and ask him what
he
plans to do. I shall also call for a meeting tomorrow of the other selectmen and Dr. Tucker. If you come to the inn, you will find a seat. That’s where I’m bound now. I will walk you to the road.”

Reverend Rowe had been notified, as the village would expect. And that was that. Longfellow would be damned before he would give the man more. In fact, he thought ruefully, he would most certainly be damned by Rowe anyway—in the village, and quite possibly in the preacher’s prayers—no matter what he did.

Soon Richard Longfellow watched the minister scurry away toward Mrs. Willett’s house, probably to inflict as much unease there, too, as he could. Meanwhile, Longfellow
strode across the road to Jonathan Pratt’s establishment. Inside, the innkeeper bustled toward him, a look of sympathy on his round face.

“I’ve just heard. A customer from the Blue Boar came and told me, after Cicero called for Phineas. I’m sorry, Richard. I know you did your best for her. This is most disturbing! What has happened, do you think?”

“Who knows? But, we may yet find some physical evidence. Beyond that, I suppose we’ll need to question a few people concerning the girl’s state of mind, and seek out anyone else who might have information about her recent behavior. I believe that’s what’s expected.”

Behind them, the chatter from the taproom erupted into laughter, but it had no cheering effect on the two men.

“It puts you in an uncomfortable position.”

“It does. Though I hope to have some company quite soon. Can you find Tim for me?”

“Certainly. What would you like him to do?”

“I want him to take a letter north. I’ll write it out now. Send him off right away.”

“He’ll leave at your pleasure.”

“Pleasure,” Longfellow repeated darkly, as he sat down in a hall nook at a baize-covered table. Its single drawer contained paper, a few split and sharpened feathers, and a bottle of ink. It only took him a moment to scratch out a brief message, after which he leaned back with a deepening scowl.

IN HIS BEDCHAMBER
across the road, Benjamin Tucker was finishing a much lengthier epistle of his own. Perhaps the letter would never be opened, and its contents would make no difference. He still hoped to keep worse from happening.

And yet, this morning, Phoebe Morris was dead! The horror of his situation continued to grow, as some of the
confusion in his spirit-addled brain ebbed away. The cause of death was, after all, unclear, but he grew more afraid. Three years ago, such a beautiful child … no, that was all finished! But how could he have convinced himself that she needed no help? Why had he allowed her to return to Concord?

Hadn’t she looked fine, though—better than before, even, when he was with her only yesterday? After that, he had to act … for she was about to marry! How could he allow it?
How?

He had told her at last … but had he done far more? Even now, he wasn’t sure. If he could only remember!

If only he had disengaged himself, when he first saw her again—but how could he be expected to live in disgrace, with no clients, no work, so few pleasures to lighten the eternal pain? What would they have thought of him, had he told them? Would he
ever
be able to give up his final hope?

The doctor’s head throbbed. Last night he had talked with Longfellow in his study, peering into his host’s microscope until the small hours while gulping down brandy. It had been a long while since he had been able to afford his fill of anything so costly. And yet, on top of the opium he had swallowed for his twisting gut, had he been wise to drink at all?

He did remember going out for air, and barely recalled coming to the greenhouse. The climbing roses at its doorway … surely, they must explain the carefully hidden scratches on his wrists.… Though how he had ended up in his bed fully clothed this morning, he could not tell.

There
was
still time to warn Longfellow’s sister—but would she listen? Even if it came from his own lips, could she bring herself to believe such a ghastly thing possible? Such weakness—such madness? Frequently, women refused to see what stood before them. Yet Phoebe had been terrified enough, when he spoke with her! At first, she had
only dreaded her young man’s reaction, should he hear the worst about their shared past. But then—

The question was, how much did the boy know now? Had she told him anything? Had she confessed everything? Or had this Will Sloan been the one to kill her, after all? Oh, if only he could
remember!

How Benjamin Tucker longed to tell what he suspected, and confess to what he’d done, whatever the consequences. But if, in the end, he found himself unable, they would at least have his letter.

Scratching an address on the outside, he lit a candle from the embers in his hearth, dripped on a wax seal, and impressed it with a finger ring. Soon, horribly, he would have to look over what remained of Phoebe, to see if there was anything that might give the game away. How ironic that he alone would examine the corpse closely. He must tell them, he decided, that she was still a maiden, even though …

After all, there was still her family. Why should they suffer, as his own already had? As for himself, he would take another drink, or two, for health’s sake, before he attempted his final visit with the dear little thing.

But first, Dr. Tucker took letter in hand and walked briskly across the road to the Bracebridge Inn. There, he left instructions for his communication to go into Boston first thing in the morning, along with the fresh vegetables, and several kegs of fermenting cider.

LATE THAT EVENING
, Charlotte Willett sat in her borrowed chamber, between those of Dr. Tucker and Cicero, where she and her faithful dog kept each other company. Orpheus sensed that something unusual had happened, and was full of concern for his mistress. While she walked about, he watched her carefully, moving out of her way when she forgot he was there, looking into the hallway as
steps came and went, or when the front door banged below. He watched, too, as Charlotte sat motionless in the Windsor chair next to her bed, still recalling the events of her exhausting day.

First she had discovered Phoebe, and had gone for help. After the initial investigation, she’d stayed to do what she could for Diana and Hannah, while Lem, pressed into a window seat, watched for passersby along the road, wishing, Charlotte imagined, that his friend Will Sloan would suddenly reappear.

Later, Reverend Rowe had paid them all an unwanted visit. Before he left, he had scared Hannah half to death with his questions and suspicions, anxious to pin blame to someone, though he had no proof. Fortunately, Diana had been more than a match for him, and her chilly manner soon drove the reverend to the door. They might have welcomed him had he anything useful to say, or any comfort to give. But as far as Charlotte could determine, Reverend Rowe brought nothing to the situation that helped settle matters. Though of course, thus far, neither had anyone else.

After that, Richard Longfellow and Phineas Wise came in with two others who carried a pine box. When the constable had seen Phoebe for himself, from a distance, the young men carried her away to a cellar in Longfellow’s barn, where she would await her eventual interment. Then Longfellow and Wise went outside to examine the areas beneath the windows of the house, but found nothing beyond a wealth of spring grass, nor any further indication of what might have happened during the night.

Tears now came to Charlotte’s eyes, as she remembered Phoebe whirling with joy only days before, when the path of her young life had seemed clear. How she wished she’d been more inquisitive while the girl was still alive! Hannah, too, had obvious regrets—though she was as yet unable to weep for one who would soon have become her
daughter. She could not even speak Phoebe’s name; rather, she seemed to be brooding, enough so that Mrs. Willett feared for her well-being, and suggested a dose of valerian from her simples chest, for sleep. The idea had frozen the distraught woman further, as if she somehow dreaded the prospect. Yet sleep would be needed, Mrs. Willett knew, before any of them could begin to forget. Time must pass: there was no other hope. For Phoebe had left them, never to return.

A short while later, seeking comfort in her own bed, Charlotte lay grateful under a warm quilt. But as she felt the clarity of the day fade, she continued to think. Lem said he’d been awakened, he supposed by moonlight, long after he’d gone to bed.
Something
had lifted him from sleep—a noise, or the light, or a moving shadow. And well out of hearing, she had been roused at the same time, for she had heard a different clock strike three.

Could it possibly be, she wondered, tingling at the thought, as it was with Aaron? For years there had been that occasional brush of a hand on her cheek, with no one there; the echo of soft steps, which Orpheus, too, seemed sometimes to hear; a recurring scent of horehound. Lately, such impressions had lessened, but Aaron Willett was with her still. Now, could there be another? Last night—could Lem have heard a life end, while she woke to sense a new beginning?