Thread Herrings

by Lea Wait

  “Pretty name,” I put in.

  “It is, and not common nowadays. Letitia had a son named Charles. I don’t know when he was born—I know you were hoping for 1757—but he did marry in 1782, so he could be your Charles. He’d be about the right age.”

  “Was Letitia married?”

  “Interestingly, I can’t find a reference to a husband. It’s hard to trace a woman’s family, because after she married she became, for example, Mrs. Gilcrest, and even her first, given, name disappeared. Jonathan had a wife, for example, but I don’t know her name. But Letitia isn’t listed as anyone’s wife. In fact, I’m assuming she’s a sister, since she and Jonathan have the same last name. I suppose she could have been a cousin or some other relation who came with Jonathan and his wife to the wilderness of Maine.”

  “Do you know when they got here?”

  “The first reference I’ve found to them is in 1765. They could have arrived then, or perhaps they’d been here for a while, but their presence wasn’t recorded anywhere I’ve looked so far.”

  “So,” I said, “Maybe Letitia had Charles out of wedlock in England in 1757 and went back to reclaim him a few months later, and sometime, not much later, they came to Maine with her brother to start over.”

  “That’s possible. If they waited several years to sail, I wonder where she lived in England. She wouldn’t have brought a bastard child home with her to whatever grand house they lived in. Remember, the Holgates were one of the families with land grants. More to your purpose, they might also have been a family with a crest, and even a coat of arms.”

  “That’s exciting! I wonder if Jonathan or Letitia brought that embroidered coat of arms with them from England.”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would have stitched it here, from a practical point of view. Flaunting ties to nobility wasn’t popular on this side of the pond in the late eighteenth century. But, on the other hand, that embroidery isn’t fine stitching. Someone who wasn’t an expert embroiderer might have based it on a sketch, or even a verbal description. By most standards, even when it was new it wasn’t well enough done to be framed.”

  “But it was framed,” I said. “I took it out of a frame.”

  “And the papers for baby Charles were behind it, right? Maybe Letitia embroidered it herself. She or her brother would have been the one who reclaimed the baby, and somehow managed to get that receipt—that billet, you said they called it—at the same time. Could the embroidery of the coat of arms be a message of some sort?”

  “A sign that Charles was from a grand family?” I frowned. “And yet he was a bastard, or we’re assuming he was. Here in Maine no one would have asked questions about his heritage. Letitia could have said her husband had died. She wouldn’t have been the first woman with a child to say that.”

  “True enough. And we may never know,” agreed Ruth. “The real question is why someone today cares about it.”

  “The Holgate family consigned a lot of household furnishings, most of them old, to the auction house in Augusta. Those furnishings could have included the embroidery. Whoever consigned it couldn’t have been impressed by the coat of arms. It was in bad condition, as you saw. The embroidery hadn’t been out of the frame in years. The nails holding it in the frame were short, with square heads. The kind a blacksmith would have made. It looked like something that had been under the eaves in someone’s attic for years.”

  “So the family today might not have known about the concealed paper,” said Ruth. “That must be what they didn’t want you to investigate. Maybe they first heard about the paper when they heard you on the news.”

  “It makes sense,” I agreed. “Although since Charles was born and left at the Foundling Hospital more than two hundred and fifty years ago, I can’t imagine what difference it would make to someone today.”

  “Some families are sensitive about illegitimacy,” said Ruth.

  “I suppose so,” I said. “But two hundred and fifty years ago?”

  “I’ll take a look at more recent descendants of the Holgates,” Ruth promised. “We already know Senator Holgate’s husband is one. I’ll start with him. After all, he’s a Jonathan Holgate, too, like the eighteenth-century Holgate I found. It could be a coincidence, or it could be he was named after his ancestor.”

  “Thank you, Ruth! I appreciate all the work you’re doing on this. And, before you hang up, one more question. I was thinking of making cookies for Patrick this afternoon. He doesn’t have any flour or vanilla. Is there anything else I could use?”

  Ruth laughed. “I can’t think of any substitute for flour. Maybe Anna, across the street, could give you some. Lemon flavoring would work. Or even almond, depending on the variety of cookie. Some people use rum or sherry, but I wouldn’t do that to sweet cookies. Maple syrup? Does he have shortening and baking soda?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling a little discouraged. Patrick was a guy. Steak, he had. Eggs, he had. Baking supplies? Not so much. “Thanks for your help, Ruth. I’ll check in with you later.”

  I looked through the cabinets in his kitchen again. I’d been right the first time I’d looked. No baking supplies.

  “What’re you looking for?” asked the man in question, joining me in the kitchen. He glanced at my mug. “I needed more coffee, too. Last night was fun, but . . .”

  “A little too much champagne,” I agreed. “I was thinking of making cookies. But you don’t have all the ingredients I’d need.”

  “Cookies! That would be great. But you’re right about ingredients. I don’t bake.” He looked at me and then glanced out the window. “The roads are better now. I could do a little shopping.”

  I joined him at the window. True. The sun was gone, but cars were moving along the road at usual speeds.

  “Make a list of what you need. I’ll go to the supermarket and get everything. I’ll pick up something for our lunch, too. It’s almost noon.”

  I was still full from breakfast, and yesterday he’d bought enough food to feed half of Haven Harbor. Maybe his work wasn’t going well and he was looking for an excuse to go out. “Did you do much work this morning?” I asked.

  Patrick shrugged, and then smiled. “A little. Touch-ups. It’s hard to concentrate on painting when my lovely lady is in the next room.”

  I was flattered, but, at the moment, jealous. He was going out into the world. I’d promised I’d stay in hiding for at least today.

  He washed the paint off his hands and gulped a little coffee as I made out a short list. Snickerdoodles, like Sarah was making, would be the easiest, and I could call her if I had any questions. “Thanks for doing this. I’m not a great cook, but cookies will keep me amused for a while.”

  “I want my lady to be amused, of course,” he said. He pulled on his heavy jacket and boots and headed for the door.

  “Wait! I forgot to check. Do you have a cookie sheet?”

  He stopped. “A flat pan, like for pizza?”

  “Round or square. Either.”

  “Glad you asked. I’ll get one. Or two. Be back soon.”

  He kissed me soundly and left.

  I turned on the television, looking for an amusing old movie. I’d started switching channels when Patrick came back in.

  “Call your friend Pete,” he said. “We need to talk to him. Now.”

  Chapter 28

  “Short is our longest day of life.

  And soon its prospect ends,

  Yet on that day, uncertain date,

  Eternity depends.”

  —Orphaned Mary Pennell Corbit was raised by her uncle, William Corbit, in Appoquinimink, now Odessa, Delaware. When she was eleven Mary finished this sampler, which included the initials of her relatives, and flowers, on linen with beige, brown, and blue embroidery. On May 14, 1823, her uncle noted in his account book that he had purchased “a gilt frame for sampler.” Mary’s sampler is now at the Winterthur Museum.

  I looked at Patrick’s face. He was serious. Too serious. I called Pete.r />
  “Pete? Angie. No, I’m fine. Patrick wants to talk to you.” I handed the phone to Patrick, switching it to speaker so I could hear their conversation too.

  “Pete? Angie and I’ve been here in the carriage house since yesterday afternoon. I just went outside, and there are fresh footprints around the house.”

  “Are your gates closed and locked, Patrick?” Pete’s voice was alert and concerned.

  “Both gates. Sure. Since we got here yesterday. And the doors and windows are locked.”

  “Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right over. Don’t open the gate until I get there. And stay away from the windows, just in case someone is still out there.”

  Patrick handed the phone back to me and pulled off his jacket.

  “Did you walk all around the house?” I asked.

  “No. But the footprints seemed to be circling it. You heard Pete. He’s coming over to see for himself.”

  I was shaking a little. “Whoever it was could have been looking in the windows. You don’t have shades or blinds.”

  “We’re out of town, far from anyone else, with fields and woods as neighbors. The road’s on the other side of the stone wall. No one can see in.”

  Not unless they were right outside. “How could someone get into the estate? Past the gates?” I’d felt safe here. Maybe nowhere was safe.

  Patrick had started pacing. “Someone could have climbed the wall. It’s only three feet tall. This place wasn’t built as a fortress. Or someone could have walked through the woods on the far side. With all the snow pack, that wouldn’t have been easy. But their steps would be visible. Pete can check that.”

  My mind shifted from mysterious footsteps outside, and what someone might have seen through the windows, to why all this was happening. Did all these threats and Clem’s murder come down to someone’s being embarrassed by illegitimacy? I was illegitimate. Clem was adopted. There was a decent chance she’d been illegitimate. Something we’d had in common that I hadn’t known.

  Not knowing who my father was had never bothered me.

  Clem probably didn’t know either of her biological parents. Had that bothered her? Jeannine and Oliver Walker hadn’t been easy parents to live with. But who knew what her biological parents had been like? At least the Walkers had wanted her.

  Mama and Gram had both wanted me, too. That made the difference, no matter what your birth. Today many women had children without being married. At least in the United States, most people accepted that, even if they believed children were better off with two parents.

  This was the twenty-first century. Why would knowing a child born in 1757 was illegitimate be important to anyone? And Charles hadn’t even been totally deserted at the Foundling Hospital. He’d been boarded there for a while, until someone, most likely his mother or uncle, went back to get him.

  If he had been born into a family that hadn’t wanted to accept him, whoever reclaimed him deserved a lot of credit. It must not have been easy.

  I stretched and took my coffee mug to the kitchen.

  Patrick was still pacing, looking out his front windows, getting ready to remotely unlock and open the estate’s gate when Pete arrived.

  This wasn’t a time to think about cookies, but I could have used some sweetness. Preferably chocolate. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be making cookies today.

  “He’s here,” said Patrick, using the front gate remote. I joined him at the door, as Pete drove through the gate and parked in front of the carriage house. By closing the gates yesterday, Patrick had not only kept out any intruders (he assumed), but he’d also kept out the guy who plowed his driveway. Luckily, the wintery mix we’d had last night had only turned into three or four inches of new snow and ice.

  Pete joined us at the door. “Thanks for calling me. Where are these footprints?”

  “I’ll show you,” said Patrick, putting his jacket back on.

  I started to follow the two men.

  “You stay inside, Angie. Just in case.”

  I didn’t want to be inside. I didn’t want to be protected. But I obeyed. Right now Pete needed to concentrate on figuring out who had been on the estate and when. Until we knew that, I wasn’t stupid. I knew I should stay out of sight.

  Although if someone had been looking in the windows, he or she would have been able to see me clearly. Patrick and I hadn’t felt self-conscious about being next to windows.

  Ruth was checking genealogy. Sarah was cleaning her store and making cookies. By now Gram was at the hospital with Tom.

  What was I doing? Hiding. Being a target for some crazy.

  I wandered through the house, peeking out windows when I could, trying to see where Patrick and Pete had gone. They weren’t near the house; they were probably checking one of the gates, or following the footprints into the woods on the far side of the estate. No one could hide footsteps in fresh snow.

  I ended up back in the kitchen. Patrick didn’t have any lemon or rum flavorings. But he did have maple syrup. Could I make something with that? It wasn’t chocolate, but it was sweet.

  Next month Maine would celebrate Maine Maple Sunday, an annual event at the end of March when sugarhouses all over Maine opened to the public. Farms attracted families by offering rides on oxen-pulled wagons, visits to baby animals, and fresh maple syrup served on snow or ice cream. Gram had taken me every year when I was little. Maine Maple Sunday was a sign of spring. I should take Patrick next month.

  In the meantime, maple syrup was nice in tea.

  But I was too restless even to heat water.

  I wandered through the house. I could make more phone calls, but I wanted to wait until Pete and Patrick returned. In any case, I was tired of talking to people about depressing subjects, like murders. Hospitals. Illegitimacy. Sad families.

  My mind spun from one subject to another.

  Would Sarah and Pete have a future together? Patrick and I were coping with each other. Very well, in fact. I smiled, remembering the night before. And Bette and Trixi were curled up together as though they’d been together all of their lives.

  The sun had even emerged again. Plows and sanders had been driving by for several hours.

  Where were Pete and Patrick?

  I looked out the living room windows, past where Pete had parked his car, down the long drive to where Aurora, Skye’s Victorian mansion, stood, isolated, waiting for her to return. I didn’t see the guys. Maybe they’d gone around to the other side of the carriage house, toward the seldom-used back entrance to the estate.

  As I looked, my telephone rang.

  I almost didn’t answer. But it was Ruth.

  “Yes, Ruth?”

  “Angie. I’ve found something interesting. I don’t know whether it will help, but it’s a parallel situation to baby Charles’s being born in 1757.”

  “Yes?” I listened to Ruth, but walked into Patrick’s studio, where the floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the field in back of the estate. Where were the men?

  “We decided I should start with the present Holgate family and work backward.”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “We knew one current Holgate—Jonathan—was married to Senator Julianna Holgate. She’s been in Washington for several terms now. Jonathan usually stays here in Maine. He’s a philanthropist who’s endowed college scholarships at many high schools here, is one of the major donors at several Maine museums, and a few years ago he donated a cancer wing for one of our hospitals.”

  “Okay. Sounds like he’s doing good things with his money.”

  “He is. He and his wife don’t have any children, so they don’t have to think about leaving inheritances. In fact, the Holgate family is pretty small now. Jonathan is the last Holgate on his side of the family.”

  “He was an only child?”

  “He has a sister named Barbara. But according to articles I found when I was researching their family, Barbara was disinherited by their father when she was a teenager.”

  “Disinhe
rited? Do people still do that?”

  “The Holgates do. Or did. In any case, Barbara had a son whose father was deemed inappropriate for the Holgate family. If she married, I can’t find any mention of it.”

  “Interesting,” I commented, walking back into the living room to check the windows. There were the men! Pete was carrying a camera, and he and Patrick were heading back for the house. “Ruth, can I call you back? Pete’s here.”

  “Of course, dear,” said Ruth.

  I opened the door and they tramped in, knocking snow and slush and ice off their boots. They didn’t look happy. “So? What did you find?”

  “Patrick was right,” Pete said. “Someone was walking around this place, probably late last night, based on the depth of the boot prints in the snow.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “The prints led back to the woods on the other side of Aurora. We followed them out to the road—must be at least a quarter mile. The stone wall doesn’t go that far,” Pete explained. “There were tire prints at the side of the road there, too. Someone parked his car and then waded through the deep snow in the woods until he ended up in back of Aurora, and then walked up the drive and around the carriage house.”

  Patrick nodded. “We turned the lights off pretty early last night, so chances are whoever it was didn’t see either of us in the house, even though the footprints were close enough to the windows that it appeared he—the boot prints were pretty big—tried to see in.”

  “Patrick told me he parked in his garage. So we don’t even know if whoever was here knew anyone was in the house. There didn’t appear to be any attempts to break in.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said softly.

  “I’ve taken pictures of the tire tracks and boot prints, but with this weather—sleet and snow has obliterated the prints in some places—I’m not sure the crime scene folks will be able to tell much except that a large man was wandering about.”

  “Trespassing,” said Patrick. “Whoever it was should be arrested on a charge of trespassing if nothing else. We have ‘no hunting or trespassing’ signs posted all over the place—beginning in the section of woods where he entered our land.”