How wise of John, she reflected, to make sure the Sons of Liberty had been alerted to the Lieutenant's visit so that they could form a cordon sanitaire around him and his men.

She waved to Revere, nodded to Sergeant Muldoon and his red-coated companion posted outside her door, and led the way to the parlor: "Lieutenant Coldstone, would your men care to go around to the kitchen for some hot cider on this dreadful cold morning? I'm sure they'd be more comfortable. The local children do make such pests of themselves."

"Thank you, m'am." As usual, the young officer gave the impression of having swallowed his own ramrod. "I'm sure the children do their best to obey their parents' wishes."

"To be sure they do." She smiled dazzlingly, and went back out to send Muldoon and the other man-the same short and disgruntled private who had accompanied him here on the last occasion-around to the back, then reentered the parlor and sat beside the crackling fire. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Are you certain of your accusation, m'am?"

"How certain do I need to be, Lieutenant?" she asked quietly. "Was the figure I saw in the window pounding the gla.s.s to get out? No. Have I seen baskets of sewing, and a little bread and water, waiting to be taken up-baskets similar to what one of the prentice-boys in the house has seen being taken up to the attic? Yes."

"So you're going on the accusation of a prentice-boy against a mistress he hates?" Coldstone didn't speak the words scornfully, or with any kind of irony. He sounded rather like John had last night, or when John was testing out a client's arguments with how they might sound to a jury. "You realize you're risking a lawsuit."

" 'Tis a risk I'm willing to take. A woman disappeared on Wednesday night, and Thursday morning we have the sudden mysterious appearance of a locked attic, an extra chamber pot, food and sewing being taken up, and no one not of the household permitted anywhere near the house. The civilian magistrate of the ward is a close relative of the kidnapper, and the victim, a woman who through no fault of her own is considered beneath the notice of most of its respectable citizens. I've asked you to help me because you are able to move swiftly and independently, and to take the perpetrators of this-this mad scheme-by surprise, before they can cover their tracks. And I've asked you because I judge you to be a humane man."

"Fair enough." Coldstone inclined his head, and picked up his hat.

And if Rebecca has Sam's precious "Household Expenses" book on or about her person, thought Abigail, Sam will eat me alive Sam will eat me alive.

When the party reached Fish Street-still surrounded by a loose ring of Revere's North End boys, to keep off unscheduled demonstrations of disapproval against Royal power and red uniforms-Lieutenant Coldstone signed the grim-faced little private to watch the yard gate, while he, Muldoon, and Abigail entered the shop. Nehemiah Tillet came around the counter smiling. "What can I do-?" before it dawned on him how extraordinary the presence of any British officer must be in Boston at this particular time.

The next moment he saw Abigail behind the Lieutenant, and his face blenched a little in the gray light of the shop.

"An allegation has been laid against you that you are unlawfully keeping a woman-who is herself wanted for questioning in the murder that took place here on the night of the twenty-fourth-prisoner under lock and key in this house." Coldstone laid a paper on the counter. "Here is a warrant from the Provost Marshal, to search your house and ascertain the truth."

"It isn't true!" gasped Tillet. "She's my daughter-my niece, I mean-she isn't right in the head! We keep her locked up for her own protection-"

"Shut up, Tillet!" His wife appeared in the doorway, face even less attractive than usual due to its mottled flush of rage. She stabbed a furious finger at Abigail. "That slattern would say anything to disgrace us, before our church and before our friends! Bringing soldiers here, in broad daylight, to turn all our neighbors against us! She has always been jealous of this household, and worked as a go-between to ruin the marriage of an honest woman! Her accusation is ridiculous!"

"The question is not about her relations with your family," responded Coldstone evenly, "nor whether her accusation is ridiculous, but whether it is true." The two prentice-boys, Queenie, and the scullery maid had a.s.sembled in the doorway behind her, and Abigail saw the glance that went among the three youngsters. Queenie was staring at her, her big hands working and unmantled hatred in her eyes.

"Hap," snapped Mrs. Tillet to the younger boy, "you go now, at once, to Mr. Goss the magistrate over at Went-worth's Wharf and bring him here." She turned furiously back to Coldstone. "My sister-in-law's husband is the magistrate of this ward, sir! We'll see if your warrant stands up to his authority!"

"By all means send for him, m'am." Coldstone stepped aside from the doorway. "Yet this warrant has the King's authority, and save for your messenger boy, none of the household shall stir from my presence until I have seen that attic."

Nevertheless, Mrs. Tillet refused to budge until the magistrate-a man of Mr. Tillet's age, bluff and red-faced from his profession as a ship's carpenter-appeared, grumbling and snorting at being called from his work and glaring at his red-faced sister-in-law. In the interim, Mr. Tillet repeatedly began his long train of explanations: "-my niece, sir, and subject to violent fits; 'tis only out of the goodness of my wife's heart that we took her in at all-" which invariably ended in his wife telling him to hold his tongue. For her part, Mrs. Tillet spent the half hour or so that the wait occupied in railing against Abigail's morals, personal habits, marriage, family, housekeeping, and sanity, despite Lieutenant Coldstone's reiterated warnings that her words were being taken note of, and would lay her open to action for slander.

"Let her sue me!" shouted Mrs. Tillet, pounding her chest with one ma.s.sive fist. "I'll repeat every word I've said to the whole of the General Court, and then they will all know her for the s.l.u.t and unbeliever she is!"

Abigail listened in stony silence, only praying that Sam wouldn't get word of all this and show up to further complicate matters.

And that, once in Coldstone's hands, Rebecca would not reveal that the killer was, in fact, Abednego Sellars or some other member of the Sons.

Sam didn't come. With the magistrate's appearance, the whole of the party filed upstairs, to find that the door of the attic stair was indeed locked. This ultimately debouched into the wide, freezingly cold s.p.a.ce at the top of the house-not even Queenie's chamber at the west end, above that of her master and mistress, gleaned any warmth, for obviously no fires were kept up on the second floor at all.

The door of the small room called the south attic was also locked. The bolts on the outside of its door looked new. Beside the door stood a water pitcher, a plate innocent even of crumbs, a basket filled with newly sewed shirts, and beside them, a short, braided-leather whip, of the kind hunters used for beating dogs away from a kill.

"The woman's got to earn her keep," stated Mrs. Tillet fiercely. "She'd eat us out of house and home if left to herself, a glutton and a wittol. 'Tis only Christian charity that we took her in, and she refuses to turn a hand to help us or support herself. She should be put out into the road-"

"Why then do you lock the door on her instead?" Coldstone took the key, and opened the door. "Strange charity, m'am."

The woman seated on the bed had already staggered to her feet-probably at the sound of footsteps and strange voices-and dropped the chemise she was sewing, flung herself on her knees in front of Coldstone, and threw her arms around his legs. "Please, sir, please, tell her it wasn't my fault I didn't get them done!" she babbled. Her long blonde hair, pale as flax, hid her face, and the marks the dog-whip had left stood out purple on her cold-reddened arms. "I couldn't help! 'Tis I couldn't hold a needle right with the cold, and I did try! Please tell her!"

The room was like an icehouse. Coldstone reached down and grasped the woman's arm-she wore only a chemise, with the bed's single blanket wrapped over it-and brought her to her feet. Tears poured down from her eyes, and snot from her nose, and her fingers left little traces of blood on the officer's white gloves as she clutched at his hands.

"Make her let me go, sir! I promise I'll do whatever she asks, but tell her to let me out!"

Coldstone turned to Abigail. "Is this Mrs. Malvern?" With a gentle hand he brushed back the greasy strings of graying blonde hair from a face square, broad, and slightly animal-looking, with its level bar of dark brow and its sloping forehead.

Abigail had already come forward with her handkerchief, gently wiping at the tears, stroking the woman's shoulder in a way that she hoped was rea.s.suring. "I've never seen her before in my life."

Twenty-eight

It was well past dinnertime by the time it was agreed that Gomer Faulk-that was the woman's name-would be taken to Abigail's house for the next few days, until it could be decided what to do with her. Hester Tillet had a great deal to say, at the top of her lungs, about her "niece's" inborn inability to tell the truth on any subject whatsoever, and bawled that Abigail would hear from her lawyers for taking from her household one of its members, though as Gomer was a good thirty-five years of age and, according to the disgusted Magistrate Goss, no relation whatsoever to the Tillets, it was hard to discover on what grounds Hester thought she had jurisdiction over her.

"Faulk? n.o.body named Faulk in the family. There was a Faulk out in Medford-a drunk good-for-nothing who abandoned his family, as I recall it-but they were no connection of ours, thank G.o.d . . ."

Gomer herself clung alternately to Abigail and Lieutenant Coldstone, shivering and wiping her nose with her fingers. "Just don't let her lock me up again. There's rats at night, sir, m'am, big 'uns, and they talks to me. I'll sew for you all you want m'am, sir, just don't let her whip me again." She was clearly, as Orion Hazlitt had said of his servant girl d.a.m.nation, "lacking." She couldn't recall the names of her parents other than Ma and Pa, but said that she'd lived with one family and another in the farms around Medford, the most recent being that of Nehemiah Tillet's sister and brother-in-law. "They hit me now and now, but they didn't lock me up. Let me sleep in the cowshed. I like cows, m'am. I takes good care of 'em . . .

"She and that man"-she pointed to Tillet-"come to my uncle Reb's wedding, and Uncle Reb and Miss Eliza, they said they had to go away, and I couldn't come with 'em-"

"Someone had to look after the girl," protested Tillet. "My wife was unsatisfied with the woman then helping her with sewing for the shop-"

Like the crippled boy turning the spinning wheel at Moore's Farm out in Ess.e.x County, reflected Abigail sadly. Handed off, to provide labor to whoever would support him. At least Kemiah Moore and his wife appeared to be willing to feed that boy the same rations they gave their own family, and let him sit among the kitchen's distractions. But maybe, her darker soul whispered, that was only because he was incapable of wandering away.

"An unfortunate story," said Coldstone, as they walked back along Fish Street in the gathering dusk. "But not a new one."

"A letter to Medford will yield more information on the subject," said Abigail. Her head ached-she prayed Pattie had made some kind of dinner for John and the children, and had thought to save some for her-and she felt infinitely tired. Though she knew Mrs. Tillet's spew of invective had been simply that-the vomiting forth of a poisoned mind-she felt as if she were physically smeared with filth every time the young Lieutenant turned his eyes upon her. "I do beg your pardon, Lieutenant."

"For using the King's authority as it should be used?" he asked. "As a tool to protect those incapable of protecting themselves?" He glanced back at Gomer, walking between Sergeant Muldoon and Trooper Yarrow, seemingly oblivious that her ankles were exposed by the hem of Queenie's borrowed dress. "What will you do with her? She's obviously incapable of looking after herself."

"I'll write to my father," said Abigail. "He's the pastor at Weymouth, across the bay to the south. He'll know a good family who can take her in and will treat her decently. She seems willing enough to work."

"Oh, I'll work, m'am," provided Gomer, hurrying her steps to close the distance between them. "Just please don't lock me up with the rats. I got so hungry up there in the attic, and cold. I'll even sew for you, but I'm no good at it."

Abigail thought about the single slice of thinly b.u.t.tered bread, the jug of water. Even the harsh laws of Leviticus enjoined the Hebrews to look after their beasts, and to treat the lowest of their households with common humanity. Which obviously-since the frugal Tillets had smuggled her into their attic while the rest of the household was in turmoil on the day of the murder-they had had no intention of doing, even from the first. Free labor, and the cheapest possible food . . .

At least the slave Philomela, thought Abigail, was worth four hundred dollars to somebody.

She stopped, and laid a hand on Lieutenant Coldstone's arm. "Lieutenant," she said, "might I impose upon you for one more favor? And this one," she added, "will advance us on our way, to finding the murderer of Mrs. Pentyre." advance us on our way, to finding the murderer of Mrs. Pentyre."

She had the notes from both Philomela and Lucy Fluckner still in her pocket, but the Fluckner butler Mr. Barnaby barely glanced at them. "A shocking thing it was, m'am," he said. "Well, there's always young men who'll try to get up an affaire affaire with a maidservant, especially one as beautiful as Miss Philomela, and some of them do send poems. Terrible lot of tosh, most of them." He glanced back at Coldstone, who followed them up the stair-a broad and handsome flight, open in the fashion of wealthy English houses where presumably there was more money to be spent on heating. "But this, sir-m'am-there was something about these, after the first two or three, that made my blood run cold. I didn't know Miss Philomela had kept that last one. Terrible frightened she was over it-and no wonder! The first few weeks after she got it, I thought she was like to faint, going outside the house." with a maidservant, especially one as beautiful as Miss Philomela, and some of them do send poems. Terrible lot of tosh, most of them." He glanced back at Coldstone, who followed them up the stair-a broad and handsome flight, open in the fashion of wealthy English houses where presumably there was more money to be spent on heating. "But this, sir-m'am-there was something about these, after the first two or three, that made my blood run cold. I didn't know Miss Philomela had kept that last one. Terrible frightened she was over it-and no wonder! The first few weeks after she got it, I thought she was like to faint, going outside the house."

He opened the door to the maid's room, which was a narrow chamber on the main bedroom floor, between the overdecorated demipalaces allotted to Mrs. Fluckner and her daughter. Philomela's room was very like the girl herself, Abigail thought. No frills, no fuss, though she probably could have gleaned any number of gaudy castoffs from either of her mistresses. On a little table beside the bed lay a book of Sir Philip Sidney's poems.

The more sinister poem in question was, as Philomela had said, under the loose floorboard beside the head of the bed.

Abigail saw immediately that it was written on the same expensive English paper as had been the note that summoned Perdita Pentyre to her death. Her heart beating hard, she unfolded it, carried it to the window where the last of the daylight still lingered over Boston's peaked roofs. She remembered what the girls had said of its contents, and braced herself for horrors.

But the words of those first lines were blanked from her mind by the handwriting itself.

No. Oh, no.

She felt sick, almost dizzy with the rush of surmise and horror, pieces of some monstrous mosaic falling into place . . .

And worse than that, the vertiginous shock of how close she'd stood to the man.

Dear G.o.d in Heaven-!

"Mrs. Adams?" Coldstone was watching her face narrowly. Quickly she turned to the second page, aware that her fingers were shaking. "Do you know the hand?"

"No. It's-" She shook her head, stammered-groped for some other reason to account for her distress. "It's just that it's a little like my father's, at first glance-that rounding of the letters . . . It shocked me for an instant, that's all." Had I babbled, 'Good Heavens, it looks exactly like the Emperor of China's,' it would not be so obvious a lie . . . Had I babbled, 'Good Heavens, it looks exactly like the Emperor of China's,' it would not be so obvious a lie . . .

"Mrs. Adams." The officer took the sheets from her hand, and his dark eyes traveled swiftly over the lines. Then he returned his gaze to her, and she looked aside, fighting to keep her thoughts from her face and aware she must be white-lipped and distracted as one who has seen a ghost. "What is it?" "What is it?"

"Naught." She could barely get the word out.

"Naught," he repeated, and it was the first time she saw emotion-rage-blaze in his eyes, cold as the northern lights. "Even with what you know. Naught Naught."

Abigail looked away. "My secrets are not mine to tell."

"Nor are mine," said Coldstone quietly. "Yet I have spoken with those who have been magistrates in London for many years, and on one fact they all agree: that these men do not stop their crimes. How many more women are you willing to have die, Mrs. Adams, before you conclude that protection of the innocent is more important to you than shielding politically suspect friends? May I take these?"

"Let me keep two pages." Her voice sounded stifled in her own ears. "In case one of my politically suspect friends recognizes it."

Without a word he pocketed the other three sheets, and preceded her down the handsome stairs. Mr. Barnaby glanced at them inquiringly, but neither spoke. At the outer door Coldstone looked up and down the darkening length of Milk Street. At least two dozen of Revere's North End boys loitered still, hands in pockets, studiously paying not the slightest attention to the two soldiers stationed beside the Fluckner door. "Go on to the wharf," said Abigail. "You won't be molested, and there's enough light left, for you to return to Castle Island. I will circulate these"-she touched her pocket-"and see if the hand is familiar-"

"And if it belongs to one of the Sons of Liberty, will that be the last I hear of it?"

He was so angry she could almost see it, coming off him like frozen smoke. In a voice held steady with an effort, Abigail said, "We aren't savages, Lieutenant. Even as we are not traitors."

He faced her in the thin twilight. "You are not a savage, Mrs. Adams," he replied. "Yet you are devoted to a cause-which you feel to be right-which is being led by men who feel themselves justified in breaking the King's law. Whether that law is just or unjust is immaterial in the face of the fact that you-and they-believe your cause to be above law. Even as those killers of witches in Salem a generation ago believed theirs to be. Such an att.i.tude, m'am, makes you as dangerous as they." are not a savage, Mrs. Adams," he replied. "Yet you are devoted to a cause-which you feel to be right-which is being led by men who feel themselves justified in breaking the King's law. Whether that law is just or unjust is immaterial in the face of the fact that you-and they-believe your cause to be above law. Even as those killers of witches in Salem a generation ago believed theirs to be. Such an att.i.tude, m'am, makes you as dangerous as they."

He bowed, and left her on the steps. The circle of patriots followed him and his men, like sharks around a ship's boat, out of sight in the gloom. When they had gone, young Dr. Warren emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley, raffish-looking in a mechanic's corduroy jacket and rough boots. "May I escort you home, Mrs. Adams?"

Later, Abigail recalled that she'd talked with him of something, but didn't know what, and she was hard-put not to simply answer his remarks at random. Her mind seemed to return, again and again, to two things: These men do not stop their crimes.

And the poem about the slaughter of a red-haired wh.o.r.e, written in Orion Hazlitt's hand.

"Will you come with me to Sam's?" John picked up his boots, which he'd already pulled off by the fire by the time Abigail handed him the two sheets of fe vered verse. "It's gone beyond choice, now. You didn't do anything foolish like try to see Hazlitt, did you?"

"I walked down Hanover Street." Abigail took off her ap.r.o.n, closed the sewing box that she'd been working on when John had returned home. Upstairs, the children and Pattie slumbered in their beds. "The shop was shuttered, and there was no light in the upstairs windows. I had not the courage to do more."

"You had more sense, you mean." John fetched their coats and cloaks from the pegs beside the door-his own still cold to the touch-while Abigail climbed to the little room Pattie shared with the younger boys and now with Gomer Faulk. She gently woke Pattie, and bid her watch until they returned. Only then, wreathed in scarves and cloaks and hoods and hats, with a lantern bobbing ineffectually from John's hand, did they step out into the windy night.

"Is Coldstone right?" asked Abigail softly after a time. "Have we become like the hanging judges years ago? Like medieval Inquisitors, who would kill a man to save his soul? Abrogating to ourselves the right to do so, because we felt felt it was right?" it was right?"

"The only ones who do that," replied John after thought, "are those who see the world as they did, with only a single answer, not only to that that problem, but to problem, but to all all problems. And the single-minded certainly do not number Sam among their ranks, you know. Nor will he condone murder, just because a man has served the liberties of his country." problems. And the single-minded certainly do not number Sam among their ranks, you know. Nor will he condone murder, just because a man has served the liberties of his country."

"No," said Abigail. "No, I know that. Orion-no wonder he didn't harm Rebecca! And no wonder she went into hiding-"

"If it was Hazlitt who killed Mrs. Pentyre." John held aloft the lantern as they entered the square before the State House and the Customs house, where the Ma.s.sacre had taken place. Every shutter in town was barred, and at this hour, most of the windows behind them were dark. The night watchman's cries drifted to them from another street, barely to be heard beneath the steady tolling of the bells. The wind made the feeble light sway even in John's hand, and the waning moon, breaking through the clouds, showed Abigail movement stirring in the alleyways. A chip of light flared, where someone closed a slide over a lantern. " 'Tis all right," he said softly, when she caught at his sleeve. "Sam's boys, most like." it was Hazlitt who killed Mrs. Pentyre." John held aloft the lantern as they entered the square before the State House and the Customs house, where the Ma.s.sacre had taken place. Every shutter in town was barred, and at this hour, most of the windows behind them were dark. The night watchman's cries drifted to them from another street, barely to be heard beneath the steady tolling of the bells. The wind made the feeble light sway even in John's hand, and the waning moon, breaking through the clouds, showed Abigail movement stirring in the alleyways. A chip of light flared, where someone closed a slide over a lantern. " 'Tis all right," he said softly, when she caught at his sleeve. "Sam's boys, most like."

"And was it Sam's boys boys," she asked, vexed, "who've followed me me, when I've been abroad at night?"

"d.a.m.n his impertinence," growled John. "But likely, yes. I'll have a word to say to him." They walked on in silence.

"When you say," said Abigail after a moment, "if it was Orion who killed Perdita Pentyre-You still think there were two criminals, and two crimes?" it was Orion who killed Perdita Pentyre-You still think there were two criminals, and two crimes?"

"I don't doubt he committed the others, and that it's he who has been following that poor slave-girl and sending her poems. But killing Mrs. Pentyre-" He shook his head. "To say nothing of throwing the blame off onto me. There are men whose loyalty I've doubted, Abigail, men I think Sam needs to be more careful in his dealings with . . . but not Hazlitt. For G.o.d's sake, why commit the crime in the house of the woman he loves? And why steal her list of contacts?"

"What else would he have done with it?" countered Abigail. "Left it for the Watch? Handed it back to Sam?"

"But in Rebecca's house-"

"Where else," asked Abigail softly, "could he be sure of getting Mrs. Pentyre alone? These other women whom he-he fixed upon, to whom he was drawn in some unholy fashion-these women he convinced himself were the Daughters of Eve. They were, as Lieutenant Coldstone said, common women common women. Women whom any man could come to and find unprotected . . . or in poor Philomela's case, a woman whose access he could purchase, though thankfully it was beyond his price. Perdita Pentyre wasn't. Yet to him she was Jezebel the Queen."

"Jezebel-?"

"Remember Bargest's sermons that I told you of? About the Nine Daughters of Eve, that lie in wait to destroy a man's soul? The serpent, the witch The serpent, the witch-we know Mrs. Fishwire had any number of serpents in her shop, besides her poor cats-the harlot. The succubus The succubus-the demon female who torments a righteous man's dreams. Or would he consider Philomela a nightmare? Poor Mrs. Pentyre, riding at the Colonel's side to review the troops, with her face painted and her head tir'd like Jezebel-"

They walked on, Abigail's pattens clinking on the cobbles of Kilby Street and her heavy skirts flapping against her legs. Fort Hill loomed before them, p.r.i.c.ked with spots of yellow where the few soldiers left on the mainland manned the guns. At the wharves below, ships stirred and creaked, restless wooden animals in the dark.

"Saying it is Orion," said John quietly. "And saying that he wouldn't have killed Rebecca . . . How can you be sure that she's in hiding?"

"I looked in his attic."

The lantern-light flashed as John turned his head. "You thought then-?"

"No. It was nowhere in my mind. But I'd just realized she might be being held prisoner somewhere somewhere, when I went into his house and he sent me upstairs for laudanum for his mother. I had to look up into the nearest attic, to see how possible it would be. I think at that moment I would have run down the street looking into the attics of every house in turn. It's only a tiny s.p.a.ce up there, you know. One can't stand up in it, even right under the ridgepole, and there's no other s.p.a.ce in the house, where a woman could be kept."

Across the open ground, and down the hill to their left, they could see the glow of torches around Griffin's Wharf, where men still sat up, muskets in hand, around the Dartmouth Dartmouth , and now the , and now the Eleanor Eleanor, as they had mounted guard now for ten days. Out in the harbor the Beaver Beaver lay at anchor, where the harbormaster had commanded she remain until the members of the crew had either died of the smallpox that had broken out among them, or were recovered enough to be in no danger of spreading the disease. No word yet, of the Governor sending for troops, from either Britain or Halifax, but surely it was only a matter of time . . . lay at anchor, where the harbormaster had commanded she remain until the members of the crew had either died of the smallpox that had broken out among them, or were recovered enough to be in no danger of spreading the disease. No word yet, of the Governor sending for troops, from either Britain or Halifax, but surely it was only a matter of time . . .

"Oh, good," Abigail said, as they emerged from the narrow throat of Gridley Lane to see, a few houses down the street, the weak glow of candles behind the shutters in the downstairs room which Abigail knew to be Sam's study. "At least we won't be waking him."

"You're tender of Sam's rest, all of a sudden. I'd have thought you'd delight in shooting him out of bed in order to say, I told you so . . ." I told you so . . ."

"But what a horrid thing to do to Bess. Besides, after all that's happened today I'm not sure I could support the sight of Sam in his nightshirt."