"The dead can change?" Emily asked dubiously.

"Sometimes I'll see bruises the next day that aren't apparent immediately after death."

"Like a flower that blooms at night to startle you in the morning?" Emily suggested.

Dr. Gridley waggled his finger at her. "An original mind, indeed, Emily d.i.c.kinson."

Emily shrugged off the compliment, if a compliment it was, and asked simply, "Will you help me?"

He tugged on the point of his white beard. "I'll look at the body again."

"And check his lungs for water," she reminded him.

He nodded. "But if I find anything, I have to let the authorities know."

"Of course. Thank you, Dr. Gridley." She tucked a long, wet strand of hair behind her ear. "It would ease my mind."

But she knew that until she discovered who Mr. n.o.body was and how he had died, her mind would never be at ease.

I shall forget the drop of anguish

That scalds me now, that scalds me now.

CHAPTER 6.

Emily's investigation was well begun with her conversation with Dr. Gridley. What next? If she returned to the kitchen, Vinnie would never let her leave. She swerved to the little-used front door. Opening it just wide enough to slip in, Emily stole upstairs to get out of her wet dress and shoes. She scowled at the pile of wet laundry acc.u.mulating in the basket. Laundry day would come around again much too soon. As if she weren't in enough trouble with her mother already.

A few minutes later, changed into a walking dress and her damp hair pinned up respectably, Emily ran silently down the front stairs. As she turned the corner, she came face to face with Vinnie carrying a tray of tea.

"Watch out!" Vinnie cried. The tea sloshed out of the cup onto the tray. Vinnie gave her sister a dark look. "Where have you been? I've had to make Mama's tea myself."

Emily hurried to explain before Vinnie could begin reciting her litany of grievances. "I was outside with Dr. Gridley. And then I had to change my dress. I was all wet after I saved your kitten," she said pointedly.

"I already thanked you," Vinnie said. "Mother isn't feeling well again. I think we'll have to do the tomatoes tomorrow."

"Excellent," Emily said. "I have better things to do."

"You're thinking about that body again, aren't you?" Vinnie accused. "I know where you were yesterday. Don't deny it. If Mother knew, she would have a fit."

"Then we mustn't tell her," Emily said earnestly. "For her health's sake."

"You mean so you can be free to do whatever you like."

Shrugging, Emily squashed her bonnet over her hair.

"Where are you going?" Vinnie's voice rose in pitch. "I'm not baking by myself today."

"We need sugar. I'll get some from the store." Emily stepped toward the front door.

"Emily Elizabeth, don't you dare abandon me again!" Vinnie cried. "We have plenty of sugar."

"Then salt." Emily flung open the door.

"We have a whole box. Emily, come back at once!"

Before Vinnie finished her sentence, Emily was through the garden gate and up the hill to Cutler's dry goods store.

Amherst had two general stores. Mr. n.o.body's new clothes had come from Cutler's. Unfortunately, the d.i.c.kinson family patronized a rival store, Mack and Sons. Emily had rarely shopped at Cutler's, whose owner had a crotchety reputation.

Mr. Cutler himself was behind the counter, his skeletal body framed by shelves that stretched to the ceiling. He was waiting on a little boy who was fetching baking powder for his mother. Emily could see the boy eyeing the jars of candy on the counter.

As she waited, Emily looked around the store. In the far corner was a table stacked with work shirts and pants. She felt the fabric of a rough blue shirt and examined the label inside the collar. It was identical to Mr. n.o.body's. The trousers, too, were familiar. The canvas boots she was looking for were in neat rows on the shelves against the wall.

"That will be two pennies, son," Mr. Cutler said from behind the counter.

The boy stuck out a palm containing exactly two pennies. He glanced again at the jars, his gaze lingering first on the b.u.t.terscotch, then the caramels and the peppermints before coming to rest on the lollipops.

"Thank you," the boy muttered. He took his little package of baking powder and shuffled out.

Emily stepped up and put a penny on the counter. "May I have a lollipop? Quickly, please."

Deft from long practice, the dour storekeeper folded up the candy in a twist of paper.

"I'll just be a moment." Emily hurried out and saw the little boy had gone no further than the wide porch outside. "Here you are," she said, handing him the candy. Without stopping for the boy's thanks, she returned to the store counter, a smile on her lips.

Mr. Cutler's face was still grim. "What do you need today, Miss d.i.c.kinson?"

Emily sighed. Did everyone in town know who she was? "Mr. Cutler, I'd like to ask you something rather unusual."

He waited.

"Have you sold one of those shirts and a pair of pants together? Perhaps the boots as well?"

With a bark of laughter, Mr. Cutler said, "Do you know how many of these I sell? Every farmhand and factory worker in Amherst wears my clothes."

Emily refused to be discouraged. "Would you recall if a gentleman had purchased such a combination?

"And if I did, why should I tell you? My customers rely on my discretion."

"For the purchase of work clothing?"

"For any purchase. Tell me young lady, why are you asking?" He paused, but Emily couldn't think of a reasonable answer. "Do you want to buy anything?" he asked pointedly. "Another candy, perhaps?"

She decided to abandon the clothes for now. She had one more clue to follow. "Honey," she said.

"How much?" Mr. Cutler appeared to soften a bit, like a dollop of honey melting into hot tea, Emily thought whimsically.

"I'm looking for a particular type," she said. "It's an unusual flavor-with apple, clover, and a hint of honeysuckle."

"Fancy." Mr. Cutler scowled. "I don't have any more."

"But you did at one time?"

He nodded. "Not now. I can offer you a honey that tastes of wildflowers."

"I want only this particular honey," Emily insisted.

"My honey isn't good enough for you?"

Fl.u.s.tered, Emily sought the words to soothe the cantankerous shopkeeper. "I'm sure your honey is delicious, but my mother is partial to the honeysuckle."

"I never have much to sell. Sam Wentworth only sells enough to pay for his groceries. And none at all this year."

"Sam Wentworth?" Emily pounced. "I don't know him. Where does he live?"

"You don't want to drop in on him. He doesn't like people much." Mr. Cutler sounded as if he was in complete sympathy. Emily wondered why he kept a shop if he disliked the public so.

"I'm sure when I compliment his honey, he won't mind," Emily said.

"Find him yourself. It's not my job to send customers elsewhere."

"It was a civil request . . . " Emily began.

"Civil?" Mr. Cutler snorted. "You d.i.c.kinsons had your noses in the air and your heads in the clouds. My store has been too good for you all these years, but now you ask me your impertinent questions. And to add insult to injury, you want me to help you buy honey somewhere else. Cutler's doesn't need your business, Miss d.i.c.kinson."

Emily was unused to discourtesy in any form. Usually the name d.i.c.kinson opened every door in town. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Cutler. I'll be certain to tell my father of your courtesy." She turned on her heel and stalked away from the counter. She b.u.mped into someone standing in the doorway.

"Miss Emily?" It was her father's law clerk, Mr. Ripley.

"Mr. Ripley." Emily worked to keep surprise out of her voice. Although her father's office was on the street adjoining the Common, she rarely saw Mr. Ripley outside of it. "You're playing truant from the office?" she asked.

He began to rub his hands together nervously. "I needed tea," he said. Everything about him was nondescript. His height was middling and his mousy brown hair was parted on one side, giving him a lopsided look. Emily usually had the impression Mr. Ripley did not expect to be noticed. Today he seemed anxious.

Before Emily could make her way past him, he asked, "Did I hear you mention Mr. Wentworth?"

She blushed as she realized that Mr. Ripley had no doubt overheard Mr. Cutler's rudeness. "Yes. Mr. Sam Wentworth seems to be responsible for some exceptional honey. Do you know where he lives?"

"Oh, that Mr. Wentworth." His face went slack. "I think he lives on the road to Northampton. I don't know. If you'll excuse me, I must go." Without lingering to make his purchases, he scurried back toward the law offices of Edward d.i.c.kinson.

"But your tea!" Emily called after him. Mr. Ripley didn't stop, and Emily stared after him, perplexed.

The grubby little boy was still sitting on the porch steps, sucking hard on the lollipop. His earnestness made her smile. He pulled the boiled taffy out of his mouth and said, "That man was wrong. Mr. Wentworth lives out toward Pelham. It's a red house, on the right side of the road, but you can hardly see for the apple orchard. The house needs paint."

Before she could thank the boy, he had popped the lollipop back in his mouth and shuffled away.

This Mr. Wentworth sold-or gave-Mr. n.o.body a bit of fresh honeycomb a few days earlier, Emily thought. Surely he must know the man's ident.i.ty. And if Emily were lucky, perhaps Mr. Wentworth knew more than that. But would he tell her.

The pedigree of honey

Does not concern the bee-

A clover, any time, to him

Is aristocracy.

CHAPTER 7.

Emily marched purposefully down Main Street in the direction of Pelham. Silhouetted against the sky, a crow perched on the roof of a large house, its sharp eyes watching her. As she pa.s.sed the house, it screeched. Its cawing was answered by a chorus of other crows in the elm trees scattered around the garden.

Emily stopped to stare and savor the moment. "*The ancient crows hold their sour conversation in the sky,'" she recited aloud. Ralph Waldo Emerson had a way with a poem. Her father didn't approve of her reading modern poetry, but she secretly considered Mr. Emerson a kindred spirit. When she read his poetry, she felt as though she were flying.

She continued past farms and meadows. Emily's doubts about the wisdom of her excursion increased with every step away from her familiar neighborhood. After a mile or so, she spied her goal. The property was impossible to mistake, with its overgrown apple orchard and enormous honeysuckle bushes competing for air and light. Through the tangled branches, she glimpsed a tiny red house with peeling paint. The porch railing had rotted through and had fallen into jagged pieces on the porch. The shutters hung crookedly, and one dangled by a single rusted nail.