Too Soon for Flowers (17 page)

“The question, gentlemen,” Richard Longfellow broke in, “is, should we instruct that the coffin be moved from
my
cellar to the
churchyard
, and buried
this
evening?”

At last, there was general agreement.

Hoping to move things along, Longfellow looked once more to Benjamin Tucker. Again, he was surprised to notice how the fellow’s face had aged. The man, he thought, did not look well at all.

“Dr. Tucker, you have now had a chance to examine the body of Miss Morris more thoroughly.”

“Ahhh—” exclaimed Reverend Rowe, as if struck with a twinge of toothache.

“I have done so,” the physician replied, his eyes on the table before him.

“Have you found anything there to help us?” Longfellow asked, though having spoken with Dr. Tucker earlier, he knew the answer.

“Nothing at all. She was unblemished, as we both saw; her limbs were unbruised, as was her face, except for a mark that amounted to nothing. She also lay, when found, in a composed manner. I assure you there was no sign of any other … interference, recent or otherwise. It is quite possible that she merely fell asleep, and never woke. It does sometimes happen, even in the young.”

“No interference, good sir?” Reverend Rowe wheedled softly, seeming to desire more on the subject.

“It is also possible,” said one of the others, “that the young man flew into a rage when he found himself not the first in her
affections.”

“She may indeed have had other suitors,” Phineas Wise had to agree. “She was a pretty enough lass.”

“Though she had none recently,” Longfellow returned.

“My sister has informed me of this, as did Hannah Sloan—and as the doctor tells us, there was no
indication …”

“But do you mean to say that he actually—”

“This is altogether too much!” cried another selectman, who had heard enough of speculation. “Are we to guess about these things like gossiping women? Or will we speak of what we
know? He
may have done this,
she
may have done that! Is there nothing we cay say for sure? Or must we try our best to ruin both their good names, with fancies no judge would think twice on?”

“The girl is dead,” Longfellow said curtly. “We know that well enough.”

“A violent death, which no one in the house heard, seems to me highly unlikely,” Montagu now decided. “But there is still the possibility of suicide,” he continued, looking meaningfully at Benjamin Tucker. “Though it is an unkind accusation—one that might even be avoided, by a man of feeling—”

“Suicide!” Reverend Rowe hissed, his appetite for sin receiving new relish.

“—for obvious reasons,” the captain concluded.

“That thought occurred to me, as well,” Longfellow said. “For if the tables were turned—”

“—if, in fact, Miss Morris had been scorned by Will Sloan, and if she had access to some sort of poison—”

“—then she might have done away with herself. But for so little reason? Surely, that would indicate a weak and sickly mind, and I don’t believe anyone noted these symptoms in Miss Morris before her death. Doctor? No, I thought not. And just where would she have to come up with this poison, locked up in Mrs. Willett’s house?”

“It would appear,” Montagu had to admit, “that we cannot be certain of how or why the girl died. But we might at least look at who might have had an opportunity to influence her. We ought to learn who else might have been nearby, on the night of her death.”

“There’s something in that,” Phineas Wise replied, scratching the stubble on his long face. “We could question everyone who may have visited Mrs. Willett’s house. Or yours, Richard, which is the only other close by.”

“Perhaps,” said Reverend Rowe in an unctuous voice, “I should help Constable Wise with his questions. Mr. Longfellow has suggested to me that we might find a Grand Inquisitor to be useful. I am no Torquemada, I’m sure, but I know my duty to my congregation. Do you know,” he went on smoothly, “it occurs to me, Longfellow, that if it should be decided Phoebe Morris did away with herself, as the captain now suggests, then a court of law could hold you partly responsible. After all, you are the nearest householder—a thing Mrs. Willett herself cannot claim, since she remains on the property at her brother’s pleasure.”

Reverend Rowe was gratified to see small nods among the others, who felt obligated to bow to the law first, and to logic second. Thus fortified, the preacher went farther.

“I must say, sir, that I, and others in the village, have long been uneasy with the living arrangements you have lately engineered. For there was always a potential for great mischief in them, which you seemed to find of small concern.”

“You would do well to be wary of village opinion yourself, Reverend.” Richard Longfellow stood slowly, drawing himself to his full, impressive height. He had kept his temper in check, but had no hope, or desire, to keep it that way forever. “There might be more who believe there is also, in the arrangement of your own words, sir, a great potential for slander!”

Longfellow now had the satisfaction of seeing Reverend Rowe cringe before him. For the law in general, and lawyers in particular, were known to cut both ways. Then, summoning his wits, the clergyman forced himself to rise with a chilly smile. The others, too, stood with a clamor,
hoping to ward off the storm that had begun to build around them.

With that, the meeting was adjourned, allowing the gentlemen to hurry out into the sunshine, where before long they offered others, unofficially, the benefit of their few and dubious conclusions concerning the sad death of Phoebe Morris.

AT THREE O’CLOCK
, after an unceremonious dinner at Richard Longfellow’s house (during which politics, rather than Miss Morris, were discussed), Charlotte Willett sat down to think at the desk in her study. Beside her, Diana lay on Phoebe’s mattress, now stripped of its bedclothes, letting her fingers pull out some of the sweet straw that peeped from the stitches along the ticking. She had removed her turban, and her auburn hair fell from a gathering held up in the back by combs.

From her seat, Charlotte examined a portrait of her parents, drawn in charcoal by her sister Eleanor, which hung in a gilded frame.

“It’s difficult to lose someone—even someone you have barely met,” said Diana pensively. “It’s difficult to know how to feel, or even what to say. Not that there’s anyone to say much to, except for you, of course, Charlotte,” she added. “And one can say nearly anything to you without worry.”

“I am glad that you, at least, believe I will not bite.”

“What was that?”

“It sounded like thunder, still far away.”

“I’ll go upstairs and have a look from the window.”

Diana rose rather ungracefully, then unbuttoned and threw off her brocade bed gown in exasperation. Freed from its weight, she walked quickly and lightly to the door in her cotton shift.

“That’s better,” she said as she disappeared. Charlotte thought of taking up a pen, but decided Diana would only interrupt her when she returned. Instead, she rose and took a book from a shelf that held a variety of volumes from her own time, and those of her father and grandfather. Would a translation of Livy do for the evening? She thought not. Looking further, she saw a flowered cloth cover, a stranger among the rest. It sat behind the narrow bed that Phoebe had lately occupied. Charlotte reached over and pulled the volume out. She was surprised to find it was another sketchbook, much like those she had already seen. And the young woman’s name was written inside the cover, with a date: 1761.

Leafing through the images, she saw that Phoebe’s skills had improved in the intervening years, although her early work was quite detailed, and uniformly charming. There were several portraits of children, probably her brothers and sisters, as well as a rather severe older man, and a weary looking woman—no doubt her father and mother. How different from the couple on Charlotte’s wall, who regarded each other with a love they’d long enjoyed. She thought for a bittersweet moment of her own brief marriage, and wished the miniature of Aaron was in its usual place on her desk, instead of across the way in her temporary bedchamber.

Looking farther into the sketchbook, Charlotte saw that at some point Phoebe had decided to try her hand at landscapes, in which a river and its surrounding fields and foliage played a large part. There were also expanses of grain, gold in the sun, drawn in colored crayon beneath a blue sky. Surprisingly, the sketches then changed to include scenes of Boston: crooked lanes with cramped houses, tiny front gardens, brick and cobbled streets. There was Faneuil Hall, with repairs being made after the fire; Long Wharf, with its mass of ship masts and rigging;
majestic Town House; a view of the harbor, and another of the green hills across the Charles.

Then there were other faces, more stylish poses. Here was a sketch with “Aunt Mary Morris” written below. It showed a woman who appeared to be kindly, holding a small dog on her lap. Another quick sketch showed a kitchen maid polishing silver. After that came an attractive, bewigged gentleman who looked familiar.

Charlotte sat down on the bed and closed her eyes. Then she looked again at the drawing of David Pelham. The fair complexion, the full lips, the soft expression of the eyes—these things were nearly the same today. In the sketch, he gazed at the artist with a look that seemed to express admiration, at least.

“There’s a storm coming, I believe,” Diana commented as she walked back into the room. She stopped in front of Charlotte. “The hills to the north are nearly purple, and there’s a different kind of cloud overhead, which I’m sure Richard would bother me with the name of, were he here. What have you there?”

Charlotte pulled in her skirt and Diana sat, looking to the book in her friend’s lap.

“It’s David Pelham,” Diana said softly. “Isn’t it?”

“I think it must be.”

“I haven’t seen this book before.” Taking the volume and scrutinizing its cover, Diana then turned through the first several pages. “It’s earlier than the others Phoebe showed me. She probably thought it wasn’t as good—it is quite good, though, isn’t it? He almost looks as if he’s dreaming.”

“Like a man in love, do you think?”

“Possibly,” Diana replied. “She certainly took great care in her work …”

“And yet he claimed not to know her.”

Diana sat back, folding her arms. “When was that?”

“This morning, before we came to visit you—” She
stopped, remembering an earlier meeting when she had noticed David Pelham’s clenched fist, and his sharp look to Dr. Tucker as soon as the physician had spoken Phoebe’s name.

“I don’t see why he would say that. He must have realized he’d soon see her again.”

“I wonder,” said Charlotte uneasily.

“Though I’m certain,” Diana went on, “that I mentioned Phoebe to
him
—and of course, he said he’d come and see me often, as long as we both remained in Bracebridge. Oh—and he did inquire as to her treatment …”

“Are you sure Phoebe never mentioned David Pelham to you?”

“Quite sure! Since I’d recently seen him at the inn, I would have enjoyed telling her he was here—which I did not.
That’s
why she gave him such an odd stare, standing there in the doorway, when she saw him leaving! She must have had no idea he was in Bracebridge. Judging by her expression, I suspect it wasn’t an altogether pleasant surprise, either. After all, she must have realized he had come to see me, and not her.”

“So he knew, and yet—well, it would seem they had a falling out, if he no longer chose to claim her acquaintance.”

“Perhaps I should ask him. And I hope he has a good explanation!”

Both women were silent for several moments. Indeed, they were so deep in their separate thoughts that each was startled to see Dr. Tucker walk into the room, quite without warning.

“Ladies! I hardly expected to find you both in here; but when you were nowhere else—”

“Dr. Tucker!” cried Diana, sending her fingers to her hair.

“We were just speaking of Miss Morris,” said Charlotte, “and we are unsure. Perhaps you might enlighten us.”

“Yes, madam?”

“When you spoke with Phoebe, did she tell you she was acquainted with Mr. Pelham?”

Dr. Tucker’s eyes darted to Diana’s face.

“We ask,” Diana explained, “because there is a drawing of him in one of Phoebe’s sketchbooks.” She picked up the volume in Charlotte’s lap, and passed it to Tucker.

The man’s response, thought Charlotte, was a perplexing one. As he looked down, his expression was grave; then, he seemed to wheeze, though from something other than mirth. Finally he looked up to Diana again. This time, there was determination in his eyes.

The moment he began to speak, a gust of wind blew in several curtains, upsetting a jar of violas Mrs. Willett had brought in earlier. Their water fell across the floor, and rolled toward a pair of satin slippers Diana had left by the hearth. She gave a piercing cry as she leaped forward to lift and shake them, fearing they would never recover; then, she danced about with the slippers at arm’s length.

“Miss Longfellow! I must tell you—warn you!” the physician tried again.

“Yes?” asked Diana impatiently.

“You must know—”

“That I should be in bed? But I feel fine! In fact, I’m afraid if I lie cooped up in that room any longer I may lose my good nature entirely, and have to resort to rum, or worse! Do you know, Charlotte,” she mused as she sat down once more, “I like this bed far better than my own. Perhaps I will move down here, and be closer to everyone. The scent from the garden is so pleasant. Yes, I
will
move down; I’ll get Hannah to help me. She can carry in the folding screen from the next room, so I may also have a small dressing area, there in the corner. I hardly think anyone will object, since I’ve had the same treatment as Phoebe—although I hope to avoid the same result,” she added, looking obliquely at Dr. Tucker.

“Miss Longfellow!” he cried again, extending both arms in supplication.

“I suppose it was not your fault, Dr. Tucker. In fact, I am almost positive of it. But I think I’d better move down here, you know. It will give me something new to do.”