Once he regained the road, he would find the village of Bracebridge. The builders had made enough cuts through the low hills to indicate where it might be, but he'd seen none of them for half an hour due to the snow-now, the increasing gloom had turned to night.

There was no point in going back. The wind continued to hurl sheets of icy snow at his horse's tail. Because his lantern illuminated nothing more than what whirled around him, he'd begun to feel as though he walked through an endless box, whose dull sides never changed.

If his horse had known where they were going, perhaps it could have been trusted. But home for his mount was back in Boston, which they'd left hours before. It was all he could do to keep the poor beast going forward. Before long, it would be impossible.

He had the idea of simply finding the shelter of some trees, and staying where he was for the night. But as it could be no more than five o'clock, it would be a very long time before dawn. And he'd seen storms in this wretched country last for days. Only the year before, he'd been forced to walk through knee-deep snow one morning through the streets of Boston! It was difficult to believe, after one had lived through the intense heat of a Ma.s.sachusetts summer; storms here could be devastating, and might quickly kill one who wandered, unprepared.

As the wind continued to howl, the horse under him began to shudder, and Edmund's feet no longer felt the stirrups. This, he knew, was the beginning of a bad end. He had only one choice more. Slowly he got down from his horse, and began to walk.

By stamping his feet against the ground, he felt, at least, a little pain. He also felt new sympathy for ordinary soldiers, who regularly found themselves in foul weather. He'd spent most of his early years in the King's service within the cities of England, helping men out of trouble. In the past he'd aided scores, allowing them to make amends to those they'd wronged, and to free themselves from ruinous situations. Not all, of course, could be saved. Some had been abandoned-young men with unusual vices, or those born with too little sense.

He heard himself laugh in spite of his growing fear. Could it be that he'd fallen at last, as they had, into a pit of his own making? Lately he'd woven together a net of men who ranged far from Boston, to inform him of what went on throughout the colony. But none of these could help him now; none could even tell him if he trod hard-packed earth, or gentler field. And that was the thing of vital importance. Without the road, he might go searching for a bed forever.

Forever? No, surely not. In fact it should not take long at all. Another hour or two at most, and a hard bed would be his-an exceedingly cold and lonely one.

If only Fate would bring him within sight of another light-a house, or an approaching horse or carriage. Otherwise he would fall and be buried, until the sun resurrected him in the spring. What would his wife do then? Worse, what would she do before, wondering how much more she'd lost?

Diana! He should have gone after her days ago. Too late he'd come running, having been given only a sc.r.a.p of a reason-even though he'd been warned the weather would change for the worse. He'd supposed he knew better than the colonials who advised him. Was he not, after all, an Englishman born and bred, unlike country fellows of limited skill, imagination, intelligence, and pa.s.sion?

Who would have the last laugh now? His intolerance, his own stubbornness, had gotten him into this trouble. Were they also the reason he'd not listened to Diana? Had he tried as hard as he might have, to console her? No, that had been the fault of pride, and a fear of showing weakness in his own despair, after the loss of his son. Yet even that was not entirely true. How could he ever explain the rest?

Charles, he'd been called, for his father's father. Little Charlie had cried at first. Then, nearly silent, he'd faded as swiftly as a flower.

Again, Edmund cursed the men of Boston for the pain they'd caused, for he had no one else to blame. They'd taken government into their own hands, against Royal orders. Could he in all conscience have gone off to Bracebridge earlier, leaving a dangerous mob with no check, seeking only the comfort of his wife? Governor Bernard would hardly have approved.

Yet if only he had it to do over. If only he were given another chance! A year at Diana's side had been worth more to him than all the rest. With time, he could surely make her happy again, and give her another child. At that moment, Edmund Montagu imagined the snow suddenly lessened. In the next, a ghostly line spread before him. It seemed to be a planting of trees. Stepping beneath its low branches, he found himself facing something like a hedge, which gave him a new difficulty. Once he and his horse had pulled themselves through the interwoven branches, he found they acted as a lee, slowing the wind. He paused to rest and think.

It looked familiar. But could it be? Hope made him almost joyful. Holding up his lantern, he examined branches that had scratched at him, catching his long cape with cruel spines. It was, indeed, a hawthorn!

At last he knew where he was, though he should have been at one end of the line, rather than somewhere in the middle. This was better than he could have hoped! For it was the same hedge he'd examined during the past summer, when a traveler had been found dead on the ground nearby. Now, he suspected this need not be his own fate, after all.

The line ran north and south, ab.u.t.ting the main road. For this reason, the captain turned to his left. He soon came upon the ditch he'd expected. Calling out to the horse, he continued to pull at its reins, encouraging a faster pace, staying in the frozen ditch so that there would be little to fear for the last two miles.

Soon he would reach his wife, and then he would cover her with kisses. A few hours after that, he imagined he would be glad to fall asleep, finally, in her arms.

Chapter 20.

RICHARD LONGFELLOW STOOD with his back to a snow-splashed window, his eyes playing over those who sat in his study, close to the blazing fire. Each had in hand a gla.s.s of brandy to further ward off the effects of the cold. John Dudley had already been given another; Moses Reed nursed his first, appreciating its bouquet. with his back to a snow-splashed window, his eyes playing over those who sat in his study, close to the blazing fire. Each had in hand a gla.s.s of brandy to further ward off the effects of the cold. John Dudley had already been given another; Moses Reed nursed his first, appreciating its bouquet.

Upstairs, Diana refreshed herself by a fire Cicero had kept burning while awaiting her return from Mrs. Willett's farmhouse. He and Lem were now creating some sort of supper in the kitchen. Happily, Reverend Rowe had stayed only briefly, to complain that he'd learned nothing helpful from his foolish flock. Then he'd hurried home.

Longfellow asked himself what he had accomplished that afternoon. For one thing, he'd been able to persuade the constable that a close watch on Lem, rather than an arrest, would be sufficient. This had been easier than he'd imagined. But it seemed Dudley was incapable of deciding more. Hardly surprising-though another occurrence was. Returning to the study after seeing the minister out, Longfellow found Dudley and Lem close together, speaking quietly to keep Moses Reed from hearing whatever it was they discussed. The constable stepped back abruptly, his expression of innocence seeming highly improbable. Neither offered a word of explanation; both, Longfellow suspected, shared some secret. His frustration increased as he recalled other times he'd come upon similar scenes in recent months.

Lem had been eager enough to ask how things were with Martha Sloan. He'd eased the boy's mind on that account, at least. She was anxious enough to fear what the future might hold for her prospective mate. G.o.dwin, she swore, had been nothing to her at all, and both young men knew it. Why they'd decided to fight on the day of Alex's death, she had no idea.

Later, while John Dudley did little more than play with his boil, Longfellow had questioned Frances Bowers. Again, he'd been disappointed. She'd rarely spoken to Alex of anything important, it seemed, and never at length. Apparently, he always ate quickly and in silence, well before she sat down to her own supper, so that Miss Bowers had not even shared a table with the young man- an arrangement that had suited them both for nearly a year!

Leaving the lady, Longfellow had suggested they inquire about the missing canvas bag and the found hatchet, starting with a visit to the Bigelows. Dudley rejected the idea, insisting instead that they go immediately up the hill to speak with Lem-though they could easily have seen Jonah and Ned on the way. In fact the constable had left them to go into the inn, no doubt for a b.u.mper of courage. Some time later, before he'd left Charlotte with Magdalene Knowles, she'd told him quietly that the seed bag had been sent back to her-and, that it had been taken off accidentally by none other than Dudley himself! No doubt the constable had been in his cups the day before. But why, today, had he neglected to mention what he'd done? Longfellow asked himself if something else might have taken place by the bonfire.

And then, he recalled that when Moses Reed came down to inform them the old woman was dead, Dudley had hurried to say the second death could in no way be related to the first. Reed seemed not entirely to agree, but he'd said no more. Perhaps the lawyer thought otherwise? If so, what did he he know that he wasn't saying? know that he wasn't saying?

After he'd simmered for another minute, Longfellow forced himself to ask fairly if he might not be imagining things. Yet it did appear that everyone kept him in the dark about certain events. Perhaps even Charlotte had done so. Above all, it hurt him to suspect that this might be true. But she was a villager by birth, something which carried a level of acceptance here that he'd not been granted-and probably never would be.

At any rate, before much longer he would confront them all with what he'd discovered on his own. As a selectman, it had been his duty to investigate. As a man ignored, it had been his pleasure. Now, he was reasonably sure he knew what at least some in the village had been up to. And at the proper moment, he was certain he'd find a few eager to turn about and give more evidence, by which the others might be discomfited, at the very least!

Returning to the problem at hand, Longfellow began to sift through what Lem had told them of his trip to Boar Island, while Catherine Knowles lay dying. He'd first informed the two women of Alex's death. Both were surprised, but beyond looking long at one another they'd shown no regret, at least in front of their visitor. Catherine had instructed Lem that he would find a woodpile on the western side of the house. There he'd discovered a great many sawn logs made from windfalls. He'd taken up an ax and set to work splitting some of the dry stuff for kindling and cooking. Meanwhile, he had a clear view of the path that led from the front door, and he'd soon seen Magdalene go out walking.

For half an hour, he continued to work alone. Startled when the old woman screamed, he ran back into the house. He recalled his own ringing footsteps, but no others. When he found her, Catherine was on her hands and knees by the hearth, her lower clothing aflame. Keeping his wits, the boy had rolled her back and forth across the hearth rug, then poured a pot of tea on a few parts that continued to smoke. After that- Moses Reed cleared his throat to attract the attention of the others, and picked up their earlier conversation. "What do you think the village will say, Dudley, of two recent deaths here?"

"The village?" the constable asked blankly. Like Longfellow, he'd been gathering his own wool.

"We have one man obviously murdered, but not enough proof to lead us to arrest anyone. Unsettling, yet these things take time. What I fear is this: matters can quickly get out of hand when people take it upon themselves to decide the truth, without the weight of oath, judge, or jury. What do you think will be said about Lem Wainwright's involvement in G.o.dwin's death? He is, as you know, my client, and my responsibility."

"Yes, yes," John Dudley said, somewhat nervously. "I think they'll agree with me there's no sense in blaming Lem-even though he did leave the hatchet where someone else could pick it up and do this filthy deed. But he has told me he did not do it, and I believe him."

"Then you think Lem is in no danger?"

"Danger? No. Of course, someone murdered G.o.dwin- we're certain of that that But there's no reason to suspect anyone from Bracebridge. No, more likely whoever it was came down the road and saw the rest of us by the ice. The worst sort of man is drawn to such gatherings-pickpockets, especially. It could be this stranger first took up the hatchet to steal it. Once taken, though-if G.o.dwin insulted him in any way, as he often did-then, matters might have gone another way. That, I think, is what the village will say, sir. I've little doubt it's the truth." But there's no reason to suspect anyone from Bracebridge. No, more likely whoever it was came down the road and saw the rest of us by the ice. The worst sort of man is drawn to such gatherings-pickpockets, especially. It could be this stranger first took up the hatchet to steal it. Once taken, though-if G.o.dwin insulted him in any way, as he often did-then, matters might have gone another way. That, I think, is what the village will say, sir. I've little doubt it's the truth."

"Do you suppose," asked Reed slowly, "any might wonder if someone here made it appear appear Lem was responsible for G.o.dwin's death?" Lem was responsible for G.o.dwin's death?"

"Would it be in the interest of young Wainwright, if such a suggestion was to be thrown about?" Dudley returned. "Better, I'd say, to ask around Worcester, where G.o.dwin spent most of his years. To see if someone there might have had revenge in mind."

"Perhaps we should stay with your earlier fabrication- that of a complete stranger."

Now Dudley scowled, his dislike of the attorney returning.

"This second death, then," Reed continued, "which Lem seems nearly to have witnessed. Will the village take it for an accident? You seem to have decided, John, on very little evidence, that it was no more than mischance."

"Well, it would seem Catherine Knowles did no more than what others have done! She was old and feeble, and could hardly see. However, some may say 'Mad Maud' is now free of the old woman, and is off that cursed island. Not that I'll be among those to suggest she had anything to do with what happened. But it was a strange thing after all, the two of them living there alone. If they were were alone. I believe they may have had company-unquiet spirits, and other unnatural things that have kept most men away." alone. I believe they may have had company-unquiet spirits, and other unnatural things that have kept most men away."

"Some will be more interested," said Longfellow, "in learning where the money goes, now that Mrs. Knowles is dead. Isn't it said she controlled a fortune?"

"As it happens, I know the answer to that particular question," said Moses Reed. Longfellow rose to pour another round of brandy.

"Do you, Mr. Reed?" he asked, when no further information was offered.

"I should. I've acted as attorney for Mrs. Knowles for many years."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"Few are."

"Will you tell us more?"

"At the moment, I'm afraid I can't say much. First I must speak with the family-at least with Magdalene Knowles. Though there are some things, I suppose, that I might reveal to you now."

"Gentlemen, may I join you?" asked a new voice. The men looked to the door and saw Diana Montagu sweep toward them.

In fact, she had been waiting for some time in the pa.s.sage, wondering if she would hear something of interest within.

"We're discussing legal matters, Diana," said Longfellow. "Which you'll probably find tedious."

"I think not. Please, continue."

Moses Reed made no objection. Constable Dudley, Diana thought, actually blushed at her approach. He reached to a table and picked up his hat, looking as if he might run away. But it seemed he only wished to mangle the thing further.

"Sit, then," said her brother, setting a chair near, but not too near, the fire.

"When I came here two days ago," Moses Reed went on moments later, stroking his beard, "it was for two reasons: First, I wished to discuss a small legacy with Mrs. Willett, as I believe you already know. Second, I also hoped to see Catherine Knowles, or at least to send a message to her, and wait for a word in return. I needed to clarify certain matters relating to her late husband, Peter Knowles."

"Oh, yes!" said Diana, suddenly sitting forward. "I knew I'd heard something about a family named Knowles. But I hardly thought this could be the same, for they live in Philadelphia. Yet I'm sure a Peter Knowles was mentioned by my friend Mrs. Cooper."

"It is a wealthy family," Reed went on, "and an old one with several branches. Peter Knowles, the patriarch of one, has just died."

"I'd a.s.sumed he'd done so long ago," said Longfellow. "Then husband and wife lived apart?"

"For reasons that had to do with an unfortunate bent in the husband. After the marriage it became clear that his mind was weak, or worse-not entirely unlike the case of Magdalene Knowles, his unfortunate sister."

"You've known them long?" Longfellow asked.

"I met Peter Knowles a year or two before he returned to his family in Philadelphia, now some twenty years ago. I can also tell you that while he lived, Catherine Knowles gave up her right to his support, in exchange for complete control of the fortune left by her father-including the island. That, perhaps, was not in her best interests. I found she had little understanding of business, and refused to invest wisely. But under the new arrangement, she retained a right to a widow's portion, a third of her husband's estate. At his recent death this became hers, as well."

"She will hardly need it now," said Longfellow. "But then there's Magdalene to consider. Yet I don't imagine she can inherit, if she's not of sound mind. Still, if her brother did so?..."

"Because he was a male, the best light was put on Peter's doubtful condition by the immediate family, so that they might not lose the fortune to another part of the line. With Magdalene, there was no reason to ignore the obvious. Catherine made a small provision for her future and instructed me to set it aside, which I've done. For years, she refused to bequeath the rest to anyone."

"Was that wise?" asked Longfellow.

"Hardly. She was a woman who rarely listened to good advice! Then, a little more than a year ago, a will was made in favor of a sole individual..."

"Whose name you won't give us just yet," Longfellow finished for him.

"This I can tell you-seven weeks ago I received another packet from Catherine Knowles. It contained a new new will. Like the last, it was barely legible-but that came as no surprise, for I knew she could hardly see. Her signature, too, had greatly deteriorated, but it is one I've grown used to. And it was signed by a witness: Alexander G.o.dwin. I decided that if Catherine signed it again in my presence, I would be more comfortable. However, after discussing it with a colleague, I believed it would stand." will. Like the last, it was barely legible-but that came as no surprise, for I knew she could hardly see. Her signature, too, had greatly deteriorated, but it is one I've grown used to. And it was signed by a witness: Alexander G.o.dwin. I decided that if Catherine signed it again in my presence, I would be more comfortable. However, after discussing it with a colleague, I believed it would stand."

"Seven weeks ago?" Longfellow interrupted.

"We have all been busy in Boston lately, with many insisting their business be concluded before the revenue stamps arrived."

"Of course," said Longfellow. "But will you tell us who the final will names as her heir?"

"Soon... very soon," the lawyer replied. His smile did not seem altogether happy. "There are things I must learn first. The interests of others are bound to be involved."

"Perhaps we can help. You realize this situation could have a bearing on a murder," Longfellow added, watching the lawyer's face carefully.

"Soon," Reed repeated gently. "It's all that I'll promise, at the moment."

"But the second will," said Diana. "Do you suspect Catherine Knowles might not not have sent it to you?" have sent it to you?"

"I think that she did, Mrs. Montagu; but I would like to question Magdalene on this point, as well. When she is ready."

Longfellow rose and walked to the tall window that faced west, toward the village. Tonight no light was visible, but by the reflected glow from the house he could see snow eddying as it came over the rooftop, and around the corners. To the east, he imagined, it would be even worse.

"This is all very interesting," he said finally, "but I suspect we'll get no further tonight. And there is no improvement in the weather," he added to John Dudley. The constable leaped to his feet.

"I must be going. I may have to stay in the village after all."

"As I've offered Mr. Reed a bed here, you might take his, John, at Reverend Rowe's."

"Or I might make my way to the Blue Boar. That would save the preacher trouble."

"And make Phineas Wise glad, I'm sure," Longfellow returned. "I'll see you out."

Moses Reed stayed with Diana, although he respected her silence with his own. When his host returned, the attorney left sister and brother to sit together, saying he would speak with Lem in the kitchen and give him the latest news.

"Someone will pay for G.o.dwin's murder, I suppose?" Diana then asked, her voice weary.

"If we can find him," said Longfellow. He, too, found the thought an unpleasant one.

"Richard, I hoped earlier that I could be of some help to you, in seeking some sort of justice. But after all that I've seen today, it seems to me I've had too much of death lately. All that I truly wish-"

"I know, Diana. I know. It's anything but easy. Yet whatever happens next, we'll face it together. Until something better comes along."

"I hope it won't be long. If only Edmund-"

She suddenly seemed to fade, as she'd often done in the last week. He was about to say more to distract her, when his eyes shifted.

Had something moved, out in the snow?

There, through the dark window, he saw the ghost of someone coming along, making a path through the new drifts. Who could have come out of his barn on a night like this?

"Diana," Longfellow said with a twisting smile, "I think we're in for another surprise."

"Oh, what now?" she asked, trying to restrain her tears.

She might soon shed a bucketful if she wished, her brother told himself. "I'll be back in a moment," he added aloud, leaving her.

Diana sank back into her chair once more, and drew a handkerchief from her bodice. Down the corridor, she heard the front door open. From the entry hall came a muttering of voices and her brother's ringing laughter, which jarred her. Neither did whoever had entered share his mirth-but that did not stop it. Another peal broke out, and then she heard Richard's heels clicking as he came toward the study. Behind him, someone shuffled feet that were far heavier.

Longfellow entered and stood to one side.

"You have a visitor, madam," he said, extending a hand. What she saw next frightened her, for it was more a bundle than a man, covered by a cracking layer of snow. He flung his cloak open, and threw off his hat.