The Revelation of Louisa May

by Michaela MacColl

  “Then where’s the gun?” the sheriff asked.

  “He had time to hide it,” the deputy replied.

  “But who hit him on the head?”

  “Maybe he did it to himself,” the deputy answered. “Alcott’s one of those odd types. Maybe he got it into his head that he had to shoot somebody—we don’t know how he thinks.”

  “John, we don’t have nearly enough cause to charge a friend of Mr. Emerson’s.”

  “Emerson is a fine gentleman. But he has funny taste in friends. Alcott’s not even a Christian—the family doesn’t go to church. I say we take him in and ask him some more questions.”

  Fred sidled over to Louisa and asked out the side of his mouth, “What’s happening?”

  “The sheriff thinks it’s a robbery but the deputy wants to take Father to jail,” she whispered back.

  “What can we do?” Fred asked, his eyes darting nervously from Louisa to the sheriff and back again.

  “Nothing,” Louisa answered.

  Fred began to protest, but Louisa hushed him with a quick warning look. The sheriff had turned his attention back to them.

  “Miss Alcott,” Sheriff Staples said, “I think you should go home. You must be distraught.” His sharp eyes were watching her face closely as if to see if she was indeed upset.

  “What about my father?” Louisa asked.

  “I’d like to keep Mr. Alcott for questioning.”

  “Father is injured,” Louisa cried. “Dr. Bartlett, you can’t allow this!”

  “Mr. Alcott should be at home in bed,” Fred interjected.

  “Louisa, don’t worry,” Dr. Bartlett said, patting her arm. “Our local jail has the reputation for being quite a pleasant place and Mr. Staples is a considerate jailer. I live right next door. With a blow to the head you want to keep a close eye on the patient.”

  “Then I’ll go with him,” Louisa said.

  Dr. Bartlett shook his head. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Alcott, you look exhausted. Your father will get better care with me.”

  The sheriff said, “Your father will be home soon enough. Go home, Miss Alcott.” His tone made it clear she had no choice.

  Louisa knew she wouldn’t prevail against both men. “Very well,” she said. “But Sheriff Staples, have you considered how the rain confirms my father’s story? His back is wet because he was lying facedown, unconscious, when it rained. After the gunshot.”

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes at her, then casually reached over to touch Bronson’s back. “That’s an interesting theory young lady. But even if I agree that he was unconscious during the rain . . . we don’t know what he was doing when that gun went off.”

  “But it supports his story?” Louisa pressed.

  “Possibly,” the sheriff admitted.

  Satisfied that she had made her point, Louisa turned to Fred. “Let’s go home, Fred.”

  The sheriff held up a finger. “Not so fast. Mr. Llewellyn is an important witness. He was the first to find the body. We’ll need him to write down what he saw.”

  Louisa stared at them all, furious. It was only because she was a girl that they wouldn’t let her go to the jailhouse. “Very well, I’ll go home alone.”

  “Wait,” Fred said hurriedly. “Are we sure it’s safe? The killer might be out there!”

  The deputy and sheriff exchanged glances. “Perhaps I should escort her,” the deputy said.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Louisa exclaimed. “Either it’s a robber who’s long gone, or the killer is my father, which I don’t believe for a minute, and you have him in custody! I’ll be fine.” She stormed off, not southward, but by the northward path leading to Hillside.

  “Louisa!” Fred called. “Be careful.”

  “Take care of my father,” she called over her shoulder, taking her eyes off the path. Her foot stepped on something and her ankle twisted but she managed to stay upright.

  She glanced down to see what obstacle had tripped her up. It was a carved wooden horse, crude but familiar.

  Casually she knelt down and acted as if she needed to lace up her boot. Conscious of the eyes of the others on her, she surreptitiously slipped the carving into the deep pocket of her skirt. Then she straightened up and waved goodbye to Fred.

  As soon as she was out of sight, she pulled out the horse. It was Henry’s work, she was sure of it. Her breath came in shallow and fast. Lidian had worried that Henry might turn violent, but Louisa had dismissed her fears. Had she been terribly wrong?

  Her imagination took over, and in her mind’s eye she could see the scene so clearly. Henry had come to visit and talk with Bronson. Often he came just to argue about the architectural merits (or lack thereof) of the gazebo. Perhaps Finch had come upon them and he had repeated his threats against Lidian. Henry, pushed too far, had fought with him. In the melee, somehow Finch’s gun had gone off.

  Faced with the dead man, Henry had quickly concocted a plan with Bronson. He would strike Bronson over the head and then Henry would run away. Bronson would plead ignorance and no one would be able to prove anything. Except for the act of violence that started the whole chain in motion, it was the kind of harebrained scheme that philosophers might come up with when left to their own devices.

  She knew she should give the carved horse to the sheriff; it was evidence. But she couldn’t be the instrument of Henry’s destruction. Nonsense, Louisa, she told herself. If Henry had done this, then he must also have hit her father over the head and stolen Finch’s money and then run away like a coward. If he had done all these things, then he wasn’t worthy of her protection. But need he be arrested on her evidence? Deciding to postpone the moment of decision, she slipped the horse back into her pocket and started for home.

  Louisa wouldn’t have noticed the basket to one side of the path, except that the white dishcloth stood out against the dark green undergrowth. She brushed aside the ferns and bushes and retrieved it. It was Beth’s basket, the one she used to bring Father his lunch when he was working in the fields or at the gazebo.

  She glanced inside the basket and saw it was empty except for the cloth and a few stray strawberries. Did that mean Beth had been at the gazebo, too? Why didn’t Father say so? And why was it here, discarded in the woods? She grabbed the basket and began walking, faster and faster. Soon she was running. By the time Hillside was in view, she had a stitch in her side.

  The sun had reemerged after the brief rain shower and she felt the perspiration drying tight and salty on her skin. Through the window of the parlor, she could see Beth sewing her handkerchiefs. So Beth was home and safe. Father was in jail but getting the medical attention he needed. What about George?

  She went to the barn and knocked on the secret door. There was no answer. She opened the door and found that George’s room was empty. Her copy of Robinson Crusoe lay in the center of the bed.

  So he had run. Flight made George look guilty; but on the other hand, what other chance of justice did he have? The laws of the United States had failed him. To gain his freedom, he had to run away.

  If he had killed Finch, Louisa wondered whether she would be able to defend George. After all, Finch was an evil man and if anyone had the right to protect himself against Finch, surely it was George.

  She wondered if her father and Fred would agree with her. She was certain the sheriff would not.

  Louisa pressed her palms to the small of her back and stretched. She was so tired. No matter how much she told herself that George killing Finch was acceptable, she didn’t believe it. She had been brought up to revere all life, even the life of an evil man like Finch.

  Her mind returned to the clearing, recalling every detail. Suddenly, her chest felt hollow and her body began to shake. Moments before she saw Finch, his heart was pumping and he was breathing. Then he wasn’t. The blood seeped through his clothing but it didn’t flow in his veins. His blue eyes stared up at the sky, but they would never see again. Secure in the hidden room, Louisa let herself give in to the ho
rror of what she had seen.

  After her sobs had subsided, she rubbed her eyes with a corner of her skirt, tucked her loose hair behind her ears, and stood up. “That was pathetic and useless,” she muttered. “I’m glad no one was here to see it.”

  Locking the barn behind her, she quietly let herself into the back door in the kitchen. The room was empty and she was grateful for another few moments before she had to face Beth and tell her everything that had happened.

  As she replaced Beth’s basket on its hook, a large ceramic bowl full of new strawberries on the table caught her eye. She pumped cold water into a tin cup and splashed her face. Her eyes closed, Louisa groped for the kitchen towel. Someone placed it in her hand.

  Louisa smiled. She dried her face and opened her eyes to see dear sweet Beth standing in front of her.

  “Where have you been?” Beth asked. “I have something awful to tell you!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jo had the least self-control, and had hard

  times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was

  continually getting her into trouble . . . Her sisters

  used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a

  fury because she was such an angel afterward.

  Not as awful as my news,” Louisa said flatly.

  “Louy, you always have to be more tragic and melodramatic than everyone else in the family!” Beth said, uncharacteristically peevish. “I’ve been waiting for hours to tell you what happened.”

  Louisa took pity on her sister and sat down and patted the chair next to her. Besides, maybe Beth’s story would give Louisa some clues.

  “I picked strawberries today,” Beth began.

  “I noticed.”

  “Here, have some.” Momentarily distracted, Beth pushed the bowl full of berries in front of Louisa. She waited until Louisa popped one in her mouth. They were small and sweet and Louisa, anxious as she was, couldn’t help but savor them on her tongue.

  Satisfied, Beth went on. “I brought a sandwich and some berries up to the gazebo for Father’s dinner just before one o’clock.”

  Louisa thought back. So when she and Fred had returned to Hillside, Beth must have just left. “That was very thoughtful,” Louisa said.

  “Father didn’t think so,” Beth said. “As soon as I arrived he tried to get me to leave. But Miss Whittaker’s card said she would come in at one o’clock. So I tried to stay. Finally Father grew angry and yelled at me to go home.” Her chin trembled. “He never gets angry with me.”

  “No one does, Beth, dear,” Louisa said, stroking her sister’s hand. “What did you do then?” Louisa chose another strawberry and bit down, enjoying the burst of flavor. It had been too long since she had eaten those scones.

  “I had no choice but to go. But I ran into Miss Whittaker on the path. She’s met me several times, but she acted as though she didn’t know me.” Beth jumped up and began to pace up about the kitchen. “How dare she?”

  “She’s quite awful,” Louisa agreed.

  “I wanted to keep an eye on her and Father, but I couldn’t once he told me to go home.” Beth gave Louisa an accusing glance. “You were supposed to keep them from being alone together.”

  Louisa ran through the events of the day in her mind. After all that had happened, Beth scolding her was the final straw. “Beth, I was busy.”

  “Too busy walking and visiting with Fred,” Beth cried. “You always please yourself instead of doing what’s right.”

  Louisa felt an inevitable anger rise up in her. Staring down at the strawberry hulls on the table, she cried, “Finch, the slave catcher, has been murdered. Fred discovered the body. Father says he didn’t do it because someone hit him over the head and knocked him unconscious, but Sheriff Staples doesn’t believe his story and put him in jail. If Father didn’t kill him, then to my mind the two lead suspects are George or Henry. That’s how I’ve been pleasing myself this afternoon. Are you happy now?”

  As soon as she finished her litany, she looked up to see the effect of her words. Beth was ashen and had to steady herself with a hand on the table.

  A wave of shame engulfed Louisa. “Oh, Beth, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I never should have told you like that. Father is fine. He just has a little bump on his head. And the only reason he’s at the jailhouse is because Dr. Bartlett thought he could care for Father better there.”

  “The slave catcher is dead?” Beth asked weakly.

  Louisa nodded.

  “How?”

  “He was shot, probably with his own gun,” Louisa said. She related everything that had happened that day, omitting only her private conversations with Fred. As a final flourish, she pulled Henry’s wooden horse out of her pocket and plunked it down on the table.

  “Why would Father tell you no one had visited him?” Beth wondered, focusing on her small part in the drama.

  “Probably he didn’t want to admit that Miss Whittaker was there, too,” Louisa said without considering the effect of her words on Beth.

  “Louisa, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Beth cried. “You always believe the worst about Father. You can’t just love him and be proud of him the way I am, and Marmee, too. You always have to judge.”

  To Louisa, Beth’s words cut like a sharp knife slicing through cheese. The habit of protecting Beth extended to more than her health; Louisa felt responsible for Beth’s innocent nature, too. “Beth, you’re too young to understand.”

  “No, I’m not. I know why you are angry with Father. And its not about Miss Whittaker. I remember Fruitlands, too.”

  Fruitlands. Louisa cast her mind back, remembering her father’s grand experiment in communal living. Within six months the provisions and the money had run out. Louisa’s memories of that winter were so powerful that her fingers felt the chill of the unheated attic and her stomach ached from too little food. The experiment had nearly torn the family apart.

  “Beth, I’m angry for all of us. Father let us pay the price for his ideals.”

  “At least he has ideals,” Beth said. “I admire that and I thought you did, too.”

  “I did—I do,” Louisa said. “But the family should matter, too. And if he’s made a fool of himself with Miss Whittaker—after all Marmee has done for him—then I can’t forgive him for that.”

  “I don’t think he would ever betray Marmee,” Beth said. “He adores her.”

  Louisa recalled how sweetly Marmee and her father had said farewell. “Perhaps you’re right,” she admitted.

  Beth glared a moment longer, then relented and gave her sister a quick hug. Louisa immediately felt better; she couldn’t bear to be at odds with Beth.

  “That’s better. Beth, tell me what you think we should do. Can we trust the sheriff? If George killed the man sent to catch him, it would be self-defense, wouldn’t it? After all, Finch was an evil man. And George has suffered so much.”

  “George wouldn’t do such a thing!”

  “Then where is he?” Louisa shot back. “And if it isn’t George, then it might be Henry. Why should I find justice for a slave catcher if one of our friends has to pay the price?”

  Beth’s face was full of dismay. “Louy, think of what you are saying. If Finch was killed by a stranger, or by Miss Whittaker, would you want them to be punished?”

  “Of course,” Louisa muttered, her eyes fixed on the faded pattern on the rug.

  “So the only difference between Miss Whittaker being guilty and Henry being innocent is that we like Henry more?”

  “Perhaps.” Louisa drummed her heels against the sofa. There was no doubt in her mind that Beth was the very best of them. She was the true North of Louisa’s moral compass. “No wonder Father calls you the Conscience,” she said with a sigh. “Very well, Beth. The whole truth and only the truth is our goal.”

  Beth’s pale white hand found Louisa’s tanned one. “You aren’t alone. I’ll be here with you. What will you do first?”

  Louisa pressed her palms int
o her eyes. “I don’t know,” she wailed. “I’m so tired.”

  Beth straightened up and jabbed her elbow into Louisa’s side until she sat up straight, too. “You can do it, Louy. Why don’t you make a list of people who have reason to want Finch dead?”

  “But I barely knew him!” Louisa protested. “What if some stranger killed him?”

  “Then a stranger killed him.” Beth spoke simply, tilting her head to one side. “We can only try to solve the problems within our reach. We’ll make a list of Mr. Finch’s enemies. If we clear them all, then the murderer has to be a stranger.”

  “Mr. X!” Louisa interjected. The sobriquet appealed to the sensationalist in her.

  Beth couldn’t help smiling. “Then Mr. X will make himself known. Get some paper.”

  Louisa took the wooden horse and headed for the parlor, Beth at her heels. She found a sheet of paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink and installed herself at the small writing table next to the sofa. “Number one,” she said. “I suppose that has to be George.”

  Beth’s hand went to the hollow of her throat. “I hope it’s not George.”

  “Who has a better reason to want Finch gone? He was at the gazebo and he’s run away.” Louisa went to the window and looked at the barn, looming against the darkening sky. She wanted to go out and look for George, but if he had killed Finch, then he was probably long gone.

  Beth’s face reflected the worry Louisa felt. “Who’s next?”

  “Well, I think Finch was blackmailing Mr. Pryor about his illegal liquor,” Louisa said. “And Mr. Pryor was missing from the tavern today, just about the time that Father was at the gazebo.”

  “That’s good. Put him down for number two.”

  “And Miss Whittaker, of course. She and Finch have some sort of sordid history. They argued last night at the hotel. And she was not herself when I saw her today. I believe she had strawberry stains on her skirt—perhaps she struggled with Finch.”

  “She was at the gazebo only an hour or so before you say the shot was fired. Even if Father lied about her visit.” Beth wrapped a blanket about her shoulders tightly enough to ward off any bad news.