Too Soon for Flowers (19 page)

“He could have gone out later to visit Mr. Pelham at
the inn, and slept there,” Cicero offered. “Or possibly, he met someone else he knew.”

“Possibly. Or he could have wandered off to study the stars, I suppose, taking a weapon to counter his fear of the countryside.”

“In the rain?”

“Well, he might have gone somewhere, and then decided to try his hand this morning at shooting waterfowl. Unlikely he’d hit anything with a pistol, but not beyond belief for a man from town to try. He did point out that he didn’t like the things.”

“Waterfowl?” asked Cicero with surprise.

“Pistols. He said they made him worry. Seemed to feel they were sinister.”

When they regained the study, Cicero poured out two cups of coffee. “Should I wake Captain Montagu?” he asked.

“Let him sleep. He had no rest the night before this, and you and I kept him rather late last evening, as well. But I think …” said Longfellow, barely tasting the coffee as he gulped it down, “… I think I’ll take the air.” He quickly took the silver buckles for his shoes from a pocket, scowled as he realized the advisability of sturdier footwear, then put the buckles on anyway.

“Shall I come with you?”

“Let your toes uncurl at their own pace. Tucker may come back and require breakfast.”

“We can hope for that,” said Cicero, though without much conviction.

As soon as Longfellow finished buttoning his waistcoat, he lifted his coat from the back of a chair where he’d left it the night before.

“Yes. Let us
both
hope,” he called back, dashing off through the study’s doorway.

•  •  •

A FEATHERY TAIL
swished back and forth as Orpheus moved over wet field grass, nose working, ears alert.

Charlotte Willett walked behind with her skirts raised, exposing high boots that might have been mistaken for her brother’s, had they been larger. In truth, she had been fitted by a rough cobbler who lived in the village. Most Boston ladies she knew wouldn’t have admitted to owning such things, but she greatly preferred them to Diana’s iron pattens, or to wooden clogs, or certainly to getting her lighter shoes soiled and bedraggled while she explored the countryside.

Today, Charlotte had put on her boots and braided her hair to go on a search for mushrooms. She had already found several clusters that had sprouted overnight in a pasture, on mounds of rotting dung. They would be tasty in a stew. But after the heavy rain, she hoped, too, to find some forest mushrooms growing between the trees on the damp slope. Fried in butter, these would be a special treat.

With her braid swinging under a straw hat and a deep basket dangling on her arm, she led Orpheus back to the road, crossed it, and climbed the forested hills behind the inn. From a higher spot she could see sections of fields and fens to the north, where a light mist still rose into the sunshine. Her own way was yet in shadow. Even the birds had deserted the chilly shade to search for food in the brighter air below. She shivered again as the wind brushed by through weeping trees. The drops caused her to hurry on toward a glen where she had often had successful hunting.

Before Mrs. Willett reached her destination, Orpheus had overtaken her. The old dog suddenly turned and ran down a path that came up from below. She followed him with her eyes, then she was startled to see something brightly colored several yards off through the bushes, quite low to the ground. Too low, she thought with sudden unease. When nothing stirred after the dog’s intrusion, she
turned and followed the path through a thicket of elderberry. At last, she recognized the russet coat, and the familiar waistcoat. Though his head was hidden by ferns, it was surely Dr. Tucker. He continued to lie still, even as Orpheus snuffled at his ear.

The piercing cry of a flicker from the top of a high pine startled her, and made her swing around. Then she saw the wig, a few feet from where his hat had landed. Both were sodden and stained.

He must have tripped and fallen—but the physician lay on a fairly level spot, his feet seemingly free of vines or runners. She took another few steps forward to nudge a cluster of fronds away from the balding head, with its few short strands of damp hair. In another moment, she realized that a part of the doctor’s skull had been lifted away. The ragged material around the larger of two holes had been washed clean of blood; some of the pale stuff inside had later been covered by a delicate new leaf partly devoured, perhaps by a caterpillar, or some other treetop creature. Charlotte shuddered from head to toe. Yet as this passed away, she felt a new surge of curiosity. Finally, she forced herself to bend down.

She slipped tense fingers under Dr. Tucker’s coat, wanting all the while to pull away. But she soon learned that the earth beneath him was dry. He must have died before the rain, she reasoned, and remained there throughout the night. How sad to die alone—even when death was not unexpected. A few feet beyond the body lay Richard Longfellow’s pistol. There had been no attempt to hide it, or to take it away; and who else could have borrowed it? She had to suppose something incredible—that Dr. Benjamin Tucker had taken his own life.

But she had seen him only hours before! How, she now asked herself, had he behaved? As the storm approached, he’d become quite distraught. It had occurred to her at the time that the wretched man felt some
blame for Phoebe’s death, and was greatly affected by it. Yet hadn’t there been more? She recalled the doctor’s last instructions. He was obviously concerned for Diana’s health. But hadn’t he also urged her to have a care for her safety, as well? He had told her to be careful of drafts … and of windows! In the event that someone might enter? But who? Could it have been—?

No. Oh, no! And yet—could it possibly have been himself? Abruptly, she remembered the way Dr. Tucker had gazed at Phoebe, the afternoon she’d left them alone. His tender look had seemed to reveal both pleasure and pain … perhaps even a sickness of the spirit … but surely, he couldn’t have been such a man? One who destroyed, after enjoying forbidden pleasure? Enslaved by amorous desires, yet perhaps inclined to warn, like a hissing snake, before he struck?

Or, she asked herself after further reflection, what if her own vivid imagination, inflamed by unhappy novels that had lately come her way, led her now to conclusions based on nothing but foolish, melancholy fancy? Was this tendency not something she had often regretted in Diana’s dramatic and too quickly made pronouncements? Did not this unfortunate man deserve something better, after all?

Again, the wind slashed through the branches above, sending down more drops. Charlotte rose and stood looking out over the sunny landscape beyond. Then Orpheus pressed against her, trying to move her away from the thing that lay so still before them.

Mrs. Willett left her basket where she’d dropped it, and hurried down the path. She might, she thought, stop to ask for help at the inn. But what help could there be for Benjamin Tucker now?

And so she continued on, out of the trees and across the sloping field, skirts flying, past the gaze of landlord Jonathan Pratt, who sat at his desk.

What could Mrs. Willett be up to now, Pratt asked
himself, straightening sharply. Craning his neck to the window, he saw her reach the road and cross it, gain the lawn, and leap past the trees that stood before Longfellow’s house, before she vanished inside.

Sitting back, the landlord tried to imagine what this was all about, with little success. However, he assured himself, he could expect to hear more of whatever had happened soon enough.

RICHARD LONGFELLOW, HAVING
seen Mrs. Willett running, hurried in from his own unsuccessful search. Upon learning the shocking news he sent Cicero to alert Constable Wise and Reverend Rowe. He himself woke Montagu. The two men then started out together, leaving Charlotte alone in the house while they went to recover the corpse—something, after all, hardly fit for a woman’s eyes.

They found the physician lying as Mrs. Willett had described. Both stared into the jagged crater in the left side of his cranium, and at a small, powder-blackened hole opposite. Beneath the two, the all too familiar features remained—features that had been animated only the day before, when the doctor had joined them in conversation—kindly features now sadly stilled by the hand of a tormented soul.

“It is hard for me to understand,” Longfellow admitted, “that a man would do this to himself, when surely he knew of far less unpleasant ways to leave the world.”

“Perhaps he wanted to call attention to whatever drove him to the final act.”

“I would imagine, then, that he’s left some kind of explanation behind …”

They searched the doctor’s clothing, but came up empty-handed. Longfellow next rose to retrieve his pistol, which still lay on the ground. With a frown, he put the
thing into his pocket. Then he turned to study the corpse once more.

“It was thoughtful of him to come away,” he said finally.

“Rather than do the thing in your parlor?” Montagu replied, sitting back on his heels.” Yet I think your villagers
will
be suspicious of you, Richard. From what I hear, you’ve lately taken on the characteristics of Beelzebub.”

“Surely, they don’t believe I am the very Devil?”

“I would be inclined to imagine Dr. Faustus myself,” the captain replied with mock seriousness. “Unless, of course, our old friend here better deserves the role.”

Longfellow unfolded a large piece of canvas he’d brought along, setting it down next to the corpse. “One tries to assist a fellow being out of kindness,” he grunted, while both shifted Tucker onto the tarp, “thinking, too, of the good of his own family—and what does he get for his pains?”

“Involvement in the lives of others quite often forces distasteful tasks upon us.” They lay hat and wig on top of their former owner, and rolled all up together. “Fortunately, Richard,” the captain added, as he picked up his end, “no one can expect you to carry this sorry burden alone.”

“We’ll see about that,” Longfellow returned skeptically.

Captain Montagu paused to pick up Mrs. Willett’s abandoned basket. Then, lifting the heavy bundle to their shoulders, they started off together down the trail, finally gaining the meadow below.

Again, Jonathan Pratt stared out of his window; this time, his eyes protruded even more at what he saw. What were Longfellow and the captain doing with a rolled-up sheet, looking for all the world as if it contained a body? And with a picnic basket, as well?

The landlord stood just as Lydia Pratt came into the
room, searching for a copy of an order she’d recently sent to Boston. Fortunately, her husband’s wide girth blocked her view.

“My dear,” he said, offering her his chair, which he had turned from the window. “I believe I’ll go out for a while. To take the air.”

“And leave me to do your work,” countered his spouse. “Go, then. I can do what needs to be done here, and you could certainly use the exercise! While you’re out, go and tell Mrs. Willett she may have the lamb quarter she requested for their dinner tomorrow. It will be sent over this afternoon.”

“Yes, my dear,” answered Jonathan Pratt, smiling at what his wife did not know—and feeling an additional surge of anticipation.

ALL THAT REMAINED
of Dr. Benjamin Tucker was deposited in a dim laundry shed behind Richard Longfellow’s house. As sunlight struggled to penetrate small, bubbled sheets of glass, the corpse was viewed by Jonathan Pratt and by David Pelham, who had happened to observe the others and followed them. Mr. Pelham’s acquaintance with Dr. Tucker led Longfellow to hope that he might assist them in setting this strange story right.

Next, having been summoned once again by Cicero, Reverend Christian Rowe appeared. The preacher glanced down with distaste at the mutilated head, before producing a handkerchief and carefully wiping at his fingers. Finally, Cicero himself returned with Phineas Wise. The constable lowered his eyes to the body, and raised them with a grim nod.

Richard Longfellow then ushered the men back to his house, and into the little-used great room. Charlotte and Cicero trailed unnoticed behind the rest. Two small cherry wood tables that had flanked the tall hearth were soon united, and chairs pulled from a set of two dozen standing
along pale yellow walls. Longfellow himself threw open blue velvet curtains; suddenly, the sun streamed in, illuminating a blizzard of dust and a pair of crystal chandeliers. When he walked back to join the others, his steps echoed across the polished wood floor.

Partially hidden behind a screen, Mrs. Willett sat on a sofa once meant to be her sister’s particular seat, well away from the rest. This she found rankling, for she might have taken a chair by any of her neighbors on a social occasion; however, the arrangement had the advantage of allowing them to overlook her presence, and of letting her stay to observe what females were usually not permitted to see.

When he had sent Cicero off for refreshments, Longfellow examined the four faces around the table. “It appears,” he began, “that we have yet another body, with little to account for it.”

“This fellow, though, wasn’t about to become a member of our village,” said Phineas Wise.

“He is our responsibility, I think, nonetheless.”

“Well, it’s obvious to me that the doctor arranged his own end, though for unknown reasons.”

“I only wonder that he carried no written explanation, which I believe is the usual thing. And Tucker seemed quite content when he first arrived. He told me he looked forward to renewing his practice in town, once the smallpox abated. What do you say to all this, Mr. Pelham?”

“He told me the same.” David Pelham leaned back, fingering the indigo scarf of a workman, which hung today over his frock-coat.

How like human nature for the rich (and lately even the royal) to enjoy dressing as if they were laborers and milkmaids, Longfellow observed, while the lower orders attempted to imitate dukes and duchesses—at least, those who could find the coin to waste.

“Did you speak with him last evening?” he finally inquired.

“No—though we spoke the other night of the slowing of business in the colonies, as well as his own misfortunes. And I agreed to help him, if I could. We’d not seen each other for many months; yet I supposed he was frequently despondent. I found Tucker to be a scattered man. One of many moods. Though not a bad sort.”