The Revelation of Louisa May

by Michaela MacColl

  The sheriff looked weary. “Henry, the tax is paid. I can’t keep you in jail so you can make some sort of political point. Go home.” He ran his hand through his hair. “In fact, if you insist on staying, I’ll have to start charging you for your room and board.”

  “Then tell me who paid it!” Henry said angrily. “I’ll set him straight and teach him to meddle in my affairs.” At that moment he noticed Louisa. She raised her eyebrows at the word “affairs,” and Henry flushed crimson and began pacing about the lobby.

  She took advantage of his momentary silence to ask for her father. The sheriff was courteous and led her back to the nearest cell. “He spent a comfortable night, Miss Alcott. Dr. Bartlett already looked in on him this morning and said he’s fine to go home. Send for Dr. Bartlett if your father has any bad headaches.”

  Louisa held out her hand to thank him. “We’re very grateful for you taking care of him last night. Is there any news about your investigation?”

  The sheriff grimaced. “Not much. No one knows much about this fellow, so it’s hard to see what might have gotten him killed. But the landlady at his boardinghouse told us he always had a thick wallet. We didn’t find it on the body. So I’m inclined to think he was followed to the Emersons’ . . . building? What do you call that thing?”

  Louisa smiled. “Well, Mrs. Emerson calls it the Ruin.”

  “A good name,” the sheriff said with a chuckle. “If that building lasts through next winter, I’ll eat my hat.” His demeanor became serious. “I suspect a thief followed Finch there. He didn’t want a witness, so he knocked your father out. Maybe Finch drew his gun to defend himself and the thief shot him. We’re talking to the usual suspects . . .”

  “The usual suspects?” Louisa asked faintly.

  “We know who the troublemakers are in town. We always pull them in if something happens. But in this case, unless we get lucky, I don’t think we’ll ever know who killed him.”

  Fortunately for George, Louisa thought.

  “Here’s your father,” the sheriff said. The door was ajar as if to emphasize that Bronson was not a prisoner. “I’d better go back and deal with Mr. Thoreau.”

  As he turned to leave, Louisa touched his arm. “Sheriff, who did pay his tax? Who even knew he was in jail?”

  The sheriff grinned and in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “Your friend Mr. Fred Llewellyn, that’s who. As soon as he heard that Henry Thoreau was in jail, he arranged to pay his fine.”

  “Fred did that?” Louisa asked. “Was it a lot of money?”

  “Not too much,” the sheriff said. He named a figure that would have kept the Alcotts eating for several weeks. Louisa thought that Fred must have used the money he had brought to contribute to the housekeeping. He might regret his altruism when he ate his tenth consecutive meal of apples. “But he asked me under any circumstances not to tell Henry who paid his fine.”

  “Fred probably didn’t understand Mr. Thoreau’s position on the tax or Fred wouldn’t have paid it,” Louisa explained. “Speaking of Mr. Thoreau, does he know about Mr. Finch’s death?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I doubt it. He was alone in his cell all night and spitting mad this morning as soon as I told him he was free to go.”

  “Thank you again, Sheriff Staples.” Louisa opened the door to her father’s cell.

  Bronson was sitting up, his hand touching a professional-looking bandage tied around his head. “Good morning, Louisa,” he said. His color was poor and Louisa agreed with the doctor that her father needed rest.

  “Father, I’m here to bring you home,” she said. “Can you walk?”

  He got to his feet, using the wall to brace himself. Louisa took his arm and led him out of the cell.

  Back in the lobby, Henry was still furious, demanding to know who had ruined his plans to stage a protest. With a wink at Louisa, the sheriff said, “Mr. Thoreau, did I say the tax was paid by a man?”

  “A woman!” Henry suddenly went silent, as if he’d run out of air to complain. As surely as if he had said it aloud, Louisa could see what he was thinking. His expression registered surprise when he saw Bronson, but he had more urgent concerns.

  “Father, wait here,” she said quietly. “I need to have a quick word with Henry.” Bronson’s eyes were still glassy and he sat on a convenient bench without complaint.

  Henry spoke for Louisa’s ears only. “Was it Lidian?” Henry said. “She heard I needed help so she paid for me. What an angel. She couldn’t know that I wanted to stay in prison.”

  “Henry, Finch is dead!” Louisa said, more abruptly than she’d planned, but it was the only way to break through his self-centered musings.

  Henry staggered back. “Dead? How?”

  “He was shot yesterday. Didn’t you wonder why Father was here? And Fred?”

  Henry shrugged. “I can’t say I thought about it much. I’ve been planning an essay on civil disobedience.” His blue eyes suddenly darkened with fear. “Did Lidian shoot him?”

  “Lidian didn’t do it,” Louisa assured him quickly. “She was with me when we heard the gunshot.” He exhaled his relief loudly. “But she was afraid you had.”

  “But I’ve been here, in prison.”

  “Lidian didn’t know that,” Louisa said.

  “Then who paid my fine?” Henry said.

  Louisa’s mouth made an involuntary irritated noise. “When you are finished worrying about yourself, perhaps you should go to her. You’ll relieve her mind,” Louisa suggested.

  “I’ll go now.” Henry started to leave, then thought better of it and turned back to Louisa. “You should know that I’m going to break it off between us. Finch may be dead, and heaven knows I won’t mourn him, but what happened yesterday has shown me that Lidian is too vulnerable. I can’t put her reputation in harm’s way.”

  “I think that’s wise,” Louisa said. “Henry, before you go, can you tell me one thing?”

  He nodded warily.

  She pulled the wooden horse from her pocket. “Is this the horse you were carving yesterday?” she asked.

  The look of relief on his face was almost comical. “How do you have it? I thought I tossed it in the woods.”

  “Is it the same?” she asked, her voice urgent.

  He took it and examined it closely. Nodding, he said, “I remember this knot in the wood; I thought it would do for the horse’s mane. But it didn’t work.”

  “You’re certain?” Louisa asked.

  “Yes,” he said with impatience. “Now, Louisa, I have to go to Lidian. Goodbye.” He hurried out, running out without even acknowledging Bronson’s weak greeting.

  Louisa joined her father. His clothing was rumpled and his hair stuck up on his head like a halo. She tried to smooth it down, but he batted away her hand. “Louisa, just take me home. I want to sleep in my own bed.”

  “I will, Father,” she said. “But I have to ask you a few questions first.”

  “I’ve answered questions until I can’t stand another!” Bronson said in an irritated tone.

  “But did you answer them truthfully?” Louisa retorted. He drew himself up, ready to scold her for impertinence, but she hushed him. “Father, it is demeaning to both of us if you lie to me. Why don’t I tell you what I’ve deduced and you can tell me if I’ve made a mistake.”

  He shot her a piercing glare, his eyes suddenly clear. “Go on,” he said finally.

  “You were not alone all day,” Louisa said. “Beth brought you some food, including fresh strawberries. You hurried her away so you could meet with Miss Whittaker—I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt there and say the meeting was innocent. I tend to think she flattered you and appealed to your vanity. But when she came, she told you she’d made a fool of you. She’s a swindler, and she was using you from the day she arrived.” She glanced sidelong at her father. He stared straight ahead and didn’t contradict her version of events.

  “She also told you that Mr. Finch, who we knew only as a slave catcher, was also a cri
minal. She gave you enough information to make Sheriff Staples very interested in Finch.”

  Bronson stroked his chin. “She knew I would do the right thing. And it would have removed him as a threat to George.” At the mention of George, his face clouded. “You haven’t told the sheriff about him?”

  “No,” Louisa assured him. “But my story isn’t finished. A little while later, Finch found you at the gazebo.”

  “He threatened to make Miss Whittaker’s fraud public. He thought that would be so humiliating that I wouldn’t report him to the sheriff.” Bronson snorted. “I soon set him right. A man such as me is often misunderstood. If I were easily embarrassed, I’d have given up my ideas long ago.”

  Louisa glanced at him. Arrogant as he might be, he was also consistent. It was admirable in an aggravating sort of way. “I know, Father,” she said softly.

  “I told him as soon as my work was done, I was going to find Sheriff Staples. I turned my back on him and that was the last thing I remember.”

  Louisa nodded. “I thought it might be something like that. Your friend Miss Whittaker taunted Finch and your poor head took the brunt of it.”

  They were almost to Hillside when her father stopped short and grabbed her arm. “About George. I saw him running away. I think he saw Finch attack me and he tried to help. Who knows, perhaps Finch was going to kill me and George saved my life. He’s suffered enough; we can’t let him face the consequences.”

  Louisa reached their gate and held it open for her father. “George is gone, Father. Whatever happens to him is out of our hands.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You’ll be sorry some day, Jo.”

  “Oh, where are you going?” she cried, for

  his face frightened her.

  “To the devil!” was the consoling answer.

  Father’s homecoming was all he could have wished; Beth made such a fuss of him. Fred arranged the sofa for the invalid and brought him pillows. Once Father was comfortably ensconced under a quilt, he demanded breakfast, because, he told them, breakfast in the jail had been awful.

  “What would you like, Father?” Beth asked.

  “Perhaps an omelet?” was his answer.

  Beth’s face fell. Her omelets always turned out leathery. Louisa, concealing a smile, took pity on her. “I’ll make you one, Father. Marmee taught me how.”

  A cloud passed over Father’s face at the mention of Marmee. As he drifted off to sleep, he muttered, “Maybe when she hears about my injury, she’ll come home.”

  Louisa and Beth returned to the kitchen, where Fred sat at the table, happy to watch them cook while he snacked on the last of the strawberries.

  “Beth, get out the frying pan and put in a bit of fat,” Louisa said. “I’ll get some eggs from the henhouse. Fred, can you hand me that basket?”

  Fred stared at the wall.

  “Fred?” Louisa repeated.

  “Oh, sorry. Here it is.” He reached up and unhooked the basket from its hook. As she walked outside, Louisa wondered about Beth’s basket. Why had it been taken and discarded along the path? There was no reason for it she could see.

  She pushed open the door and immediately a swarm of chickens surrounded her feet, looking for feed. She gently shoved them out of her way with the toe of her boot and went to the shelves where they laid their eggs. She’d collected a dozen or so when she noticed a dark shape in the corner. She peered into the shadows and then recoiled. It was a man crouched on the ground.

  “George?” Louisa gasped. She held up the basket to ward him off, then realized how foolish that was. If George were going to hurt her, a basket full of eggs would not deter him.

  George straightened up but kept his distance. “Miss Alcott, I didn’t kill him. I swear to God.”

  Her hand on the door handle behind her back, Louisa considered this. “If you didn’t kill him, why did you run?” she asked.

  “I ran back here!” he cried.

  Puzzled, Louisa decided to start with the basics. “Why were you even at the gazebo?”

  “Your father asked me to bring him those crooked branches. When I got there, Mr. Alcott was lying on the ground and the slave catcher was dead. I was about to help your father when he woke up.” George covered his face with his large hands. In the dim light, it was as though he had disappeared, and when he spoke his voice was disembodied. “I’m ashamed to say so, but I was afraid. So I ran.”

  Louisa quickly ran down the events in her mind. Everything he said fit. Except for one thing. “But George, why didn’t you stay in the barn?”

  “Fred told me that if they found me then I’d be hanged for sure. No one would believe an escaped slave’s story. He told me if I wanted to see my family again, I had to run. So I did. But then last night, while I was sleeping rough in the woods, I did some hard thinking. I didn’t kill that man, and I knew that you and Mr. Alcott would hear me out.”

  “Fred told you to run?” Louisa repeated in a faint voice.

  In the dark, she felt rather than saw him nod. “Yes, ma’am. He’s a kind and generous man. He gave me money. A lot of it.”

  In Louisa’s mind it was as if all the details of the murder, all the clues, every conversation were dropped into a kaleidoscope and then turned, making a new pattern. All of Louisa’s assumptions shifted. Her hand went to the wooden horse in her pocket. A Trojan horse, she thought. But instead of causing havoc, this horse would contribute to justice.

  “George,” she said. “Do you still have the handkerchief that Beth gave you?”

  He pulled it from his pocket; she could see the square of white. “Of course.”

  “George,” she said finally. “I want you to go back to the barn. Beth will bring you some food. Finch is dead; no one else is looking for you.”

  Ducking his head, he asked, “What about my family?”

  “The Conductor says your family will be here tomorrow night.”

  “So soon?” The hope in his voice made her heart twist in her chest.

  “Yes. So go now, before there’s much traffic on the road.” She turned and went back to the kitchen. Beth was alone, setting the table. Handing the basket of eggs to Beth, Louisa sat at the table, her head in her hands.

  “Louisa, are you ill?” Beth asked.

  “Beth, how many handkerchiefs did you sew for George?” Louisa asked suddenly.

  Taken aback, Beth hesitated. “Tell me,” Louisa said fiercely. “It’s more important than you know.”

  “I’ve fabric enough for four,” Beth said. “I’ve finished two so far. One I gave to George, but the other I gave to . . .”

  “Fred?” Louisa asked.

  “How did you know? When he beat the carpets, he was perspiring and I offered him a handkerchief.”

  “Beth, I’m going outside. I need you to do one thing for me.” “Anything.”

  “Tell Fred that George is back.”

  “George came back?” Beth exclaimed. “But that’s good news, isn’t it? Why do you look so stricken?”

  Louisa pushed herself up from the table and moved toward the door. “Just tell him.” The door slammed behind her.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Before a quarter hour had passed, Fred came to her on the hill. He was carrying his suitcase.

  Careful not to touch her, he sat down next to Louisa. The silence between them felt like a wall. “You know, don’t you?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “How?” he asked. “I told George to run, but that can’t be all. There must be more.”

  “Much more,” she said. “You were the one to discover the body. How convenient if you were the one who killed him.”

  “It was such a simple lie,” he said. “I just left out the part where he died.” He leapt up and began pacing along the narrow path. “It wasn’t murder, Louisa. I swear it. It was self-defense. Or at the very least, it was defense of your father. As I was coming up to the gazebo, I heard Finch and your father arguing so I hurried to be of service to Brons
on. I arrived just in time to see Finch crashing a heavy branch over his head. I was afraid he would kill Bronson. I charged at him. We fought. This time he didn’t get the better of me so easily,” he said. Louisa winced to hear the bravado in his voice.

  “He pulled out that damned gun. I struggled with him, trying to get it away from him. It went off.” He knelt in front of her and buried his face in the fabric of her skirt. “He was dead. It was an accident. You must believe me.”

  Louisa hesitated, then touched his tousled hair. “I do,” she said softly. “But what happened next isn’t so easily explained.”

  “Your father was still unconscious but breathing. I knew you wouldn’t be far behind me. My only thought was to get rid of the gun and any evidence that I had fired it. I wiped my hands as clean as I could and wrapped the gun in a handkerchief. But then I saw Beth’s basket. I couldn’t let her be involved. She might be questioned, and she’s far too fragile for that. So I took it with me.” He twisted his body so that he was still on the ground but next to Louisa’s legs. He rested his head against her knee.

  “Where were you going?” she asked, her voice low and calm so he would keep talking.

  “I couldn’t take the path that led back to you, so I left by the path that leads here. I needed a place to hide the gun. When I remembered the post office, I decided it would do for a temporary spot. I ran like the dickens. The rain started and I was grateful because it took off all the gunpowder from my skin, but it made the path even more treacherous.”

  “You were out of breath,” Louisa said, remembering. “But I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “When I was almost at Hillside I realized that I couldn’t keep Beth’s basket. How could I explain why I had it? I couldn’t afford to have anyone guess that I had come back to Hillside. So I tossed it in the underbrush. I was shocked when I saw it in the kitchen.”

  “Why did you leave the gun in the post office?” Louisa asked. “When I found it I immediately questioned the story that George was guilty. He couldn’t have known about our secret spot. And if he was going to run, wouldn’t he keep the gun?”