More was exchanged though their eyes, which could hardly have been said with words.
“I have never heard such beauty before,” she then replied, “yet I do know—such things are sometimes possible.”
“Ah … sì.”
“To Britain and the Continent,” said Longfellow, “our famous guest is known as Il Colombo, the Dove.”
“How kind of you to share with us your gift—” Charlotte stumbled as she again realized its source. “—and your great talent,” she finished.
The musico walked to her side. “It is my joy, always, to give what brings pleasure.” He reached for her hand and brushed it, surprisingly, with the tip of his nose.
“I should also mention, Carlotta,” said Longfellow, “that Xerxes, the gentleman in Handel’s opera from whom we’ve just heard, is a Persian king—though his actions are somewhat less than noble. In fact, he plans to steal his brother’s fiancée. First, however, he makes love to a tree in the lady’s garden. It would seem he has a rather uncertain nature.”
“He sings to Nature,” returned Lahte, “as do I, Richard. But after enjoying your insalata, I ask you, madama: Should a love for vegetabile be mocked? After all, many things on this earth are worthy of our passion,” he said as he released the tips of her fingers.
Both men now turned to face each other again, and Mrs. Willett soon found herself pondering what two such forces might mean for the future, and the safety, of the neighborhood. Before she could decide on an answer, or even make further amends (for what, she hardly knew), an even more jarring chord came to put an end to their unsettling entertainments.
BARELY AN HOUR earlier, Caleb Knox was driving along the nearly deserted Boston-Worcester road, wishing he were home. The farmer gave the reins he held a mild shake, causing them to ripple—but it was not enough to alter the pace of the horse who pulled his wagon. Judy kept plodding, and the rude conveyance rolled on, slow enough to suit the weather, its sleepy driver lulled once more by the creak of heavy wheels.
As they passed a field aflame with tall goldenrod, Knox imagined himself in a chair behind his own house. The smell of hot sun on his shirt reminded him of his old dame’s ironing, done outside in summer beneath the kitchen overhang. If only, he thought, he might get up and walk down to the spring for a drink of cold water. The ale he’d consumed at the Blue Boar, after he’d left the mill where he’d exchanged grain for flour, had not helped to quench his thirst at all. Neither the first pint, nor the second, nor even a third.
The horse neighed unexpectedly, as if she, too, longed for refreshment. Then he saw that something else concerned her. Beside the road, next to a long hedge of old hawthorns, stood a lone mount that wore a bridle and saddle while it grazed. It was a curious thing—and yet, on such a warm afternoon, perhaps it was not.
The farmer pulled himself erect as he looked out from under his rime-ringed hat. The horse’s rider was no doubt asleep nearby; he could see that a nest of sorts had been made in the grass. But why would he be there, when he could have chosen the shade of the hedge? Why would anybody lie out full in the afternoon sun? And what were all those flies doing? Despite the heat, Caleb Knox felt a chill.
While he hardly relished the exercise, it did seem this situation might be worth a closer look. So, when his wagon came even with the saddled horse, the farmer gave a pull that made Judy stop, her large head shaking. He climbed down, giving further instruction for the animal to stay where she was. Precariously, he leaped over the wide ditch at the side of the road, landing on both feet. Then he wound his way through the weeds until he reached the silent rider.
The man was not resting. In fact, it looked as if he would have no further need for rest ever again. Caleb knelt down to make sure he was not wrong. After that, he spent a few minutes in quiet speculation.
Surely the poor devil had been drunk—he could smell it, and it appeared he’d even lost some of his liquor down the front of his old black coat. A sad thing, very sad. One hated to see a man enjoy himself, and then choke for it. Unless—unless he’d been thrown? Maybe he’d directed his horse down from the road, intending to give them both a rest—and then, maybe, it had shied at a viper. He only hoped the snake, if there was one, had taken itself far away! Yet if the man had carried some form of drink with him, could any be left? There was none around the body, he soon saw. But—might there be something else?
Caleb soon came upon several pieces of Spanish and English silver in one pocket, along with some coppers, and a few smaller coins made of gold in another. All of these he put into his own pocket with a sigh. They would have to be turned over to the authorities, for it wouldn’t do to rob the dead. Although right there next to him was something else that had a pretty shine to it, and even a gem or two. Did this belong to the stranger? It lay close, but … maybe, and maybe not. Wouldn’t it be something wonderful to give to the old dame? She’d long forgiven him a great deal; she would forget even more, he imagined, if he were to offer her such a gift one day. Besides, it looked as though the dead man was a stranger, perhaps far from home. He and his possessions might never be missed. In which case …
At last decided, Caleb Knox put the small, glittering object next to the coins in his breeches. After that, he walked around a clump of yellow stalks full of bees and approached the riderless horse. Its head rose with a whinny. Clucking to keep it calm, he crept the last few feet, and grasped at its bridle. Before long, to Judy’s surprise, he had the mount tied to the back of his wagon. Leaving the two to become acquainted, he then returned for the corpse.
The farmer felt a little foolish as he pulled off the man’s hat, and set it on top of his own. Next he lifted the pair of legs, and held one under each arm as he walked backward, allowing the stranger’s coat to drag over a new furrow in the vegetation. At the ditch, Knox hoisted up the dead weight, and grunted as he carried it down and back up again. At last he rolled it into his wagon. In another few moments, when he had arranged the man decently, he climbed forward to his seat. Finally, he turned Judy around on the road, and started the wagon back toward Bracebridge.
Looking both ways, Caleb still saw no one ahead of him, or behind. Soon, many voices would be clamoring to hear his story, for the reward of a tankard or two. He would not be sorry to tell how he’d found the terrible thing now behind him. At least, he would tell most of it … if not exactly all.
First, however, he would do his duty and speak to someone else, who would surely know what more needed to be done.
“YOU DO PAINT an unpleasant picture,” said Richard Longfellow. He smoothed his gathered hair further with a callused hand, feeling new moisture on his forehead. He suspected they’d all become more aware of the great heat and stillness of the afternoon, now that Caleb Knox had introduced Death to their party. “And you believe he met his end recently?”
“A few hours ago, it may be,” the farmer replied, his eyes drifting toward a man unknown to him, who stood at the edge of the piazza.
Longfellow turned abruptly to Gian Carlo Lahte, to watch him adjust his coat sleeves over lace ruffles. “You saw nothing, I suppose, on your way here?” he asked the musico.
“Not of that sort,” Lahte replied easily.
“Where exactly was this, Caleb?”
“By the old hedge of hawthorn, not two miles east of here.”
“And you say you recovered his horse as well. A good animal, do you think?”
“For working fields, no, sir. For walking, it could be … though he likely has bloat by now.”
“Spirited?”
The farmer considered, rubbing at the stubble on his throat into which sweat continued to trickle. “Not something I could tell,” he decided.
“Hired in Boston, quite possibly. Such animals learn the Devil’s own tricks for getting rid of a rider.” Caleb snorted his agreement, though he had never hired a stable horse in his life.
“So,” Longfellow continued, “this man appears to have been thrown after leaving the road, and stayed where
he landed until you picked him up. You’re sure you haven’t seen him in the village before?”
“Nor anywhere else. Could be he was a tinker, I thought—yet he had no goods box, nor saddlebags. Clothes like a gentleman’s, but too old. Cast-offs, could be, yet still queer, somehow. He did have coins in his pockets….”
Knox reached into his own breeches and carefully brought forth the collection, leaving it in Longfellow’s outstretched hand.
“A sad tale, Caleb. But one hardly new these days, with riders having no better sense than to race from hither to yon.”
“Amen to that!” exclaimed the farmer, whose plodding Judy had feet the size of firkins.
“You found Reverend Rowe?”
“No. But I heard he went over to Brewster’s, so I sent a boy running for him.”
“Since this man had no other possessions, I suppose he came from town to visit someone, planning to return by nightfall. A small mystery, but one we’ll understand shortly, I’m sure.”
The farmer nodded as he put his hat back on. Then he lifted it again, briefly, to Mrs. Willett. Still, he would not go. Instead he turned in the direction of the unknown guest, perhaps hoping to have one stranger’s presence, at least, explained that day.
“Ah!” said Longfellow. “Since we may all soon be neighbors—Mr. Caleb Knox, farmer and son of Bracebridge. Caleb, this is Signor Gian Carlo Lahte, a gentleman of Milan.”
Lahte stepped forward and graciously offered a hand, which was gingerly taken.
In another few moments, anxious to tell a yeasty story that had risen into a substantial loaf, the farmer disappeared around the corner of the large house, on his way back to the Blue Boar.
“This thing may well have one or two points of interest,” Longfellow mused, looking more closely at the moist coins in his hand. “Will you come, Lahte? Good. Cicero? I thought not. Mrs. Willett, will you wait for us here or return to your own chores?”
“If we’re to suppose this unfortunate man traveled here to meet someone, as you say,” she replied, “then it might be better if I went with you. For what if he came to see me?”
“To buy a pound of butter? Unlikely, but as good a reason as any, I suppose, to examine a corpse. Come along then, Carlotta. But wait a moment….”
Longfellow strode past Cicero into the kitchen. On his return, he carried a small box of coals.
“For fumigation,” he explained. “Now I believe we’re ready.”
With that, the small party started off across the fields, leaving Cicero sitting silhouetted under the cool green vines, finishing the plate of pears.
*Roughly, “How rare, gentle, and worthy of love, this dear shade.”
Chapter 4
IT’S A CONVENIENCE built this spring,” said Richard Longfellow as they walked between weathered headstones, along a shaded path.
He went on to explain that the subterranean chamber behind the burial ground had seemed a useful idea, when suggested by a pair of men in need of work. The selectmen had gladly approved the digging of a temporary site where they might leave the dead, when circumstances kept the unfortunate souls from being immediately interred in the churchyard. Everyone knew it was no easy thing to take a pick to frozen earth; nor did anyone want to worry about the spread of putrid fever in warmer weather.
“Down these steps, and leave the door open; I’ll just touch this scrap of paper to the coals, and light the pair of candles. No, I don’t know this man. Do you, Mrs. Willett?”
Charlotte, too, descended into the close, timbered space, where the aroma of damp earth vied with something less wholesome. She saw the body lying on a trestle table, and looked instinctively to the closed eyelids, then at the waxy face. The man’s pale features suggested someone of perhaps forty-five, possibly fifty. Clearly, this wasn’t a farmer who’d spent his days in the sun. His oily hair had a reddish hue, as did the short curls on the knuckles of his smooth, unbruised, and unadorned hands. The nails were surprisingly clean—a benefit of long gnawing by their owner. She speculated he was a person whose fortunes had fluctuated. Though his apparel was quite worn, it seemed to be made of thin-stranded and tightly woven fabric, surely not home-loomed. It looked as if the cut of the coat was original, and the stitchwork good; yet there was something unfamiliar in the proportions of the garments, as well as their finishing details. Over much of this clothing there was a dark stain—which accounted for the smell.
Looking up, Charlotte at last shook her head to Longfellow’s question, while noting that Signor Lahte stared hard into the stranger’s face, as she had. He then pulled himself together with a start.
“Can it be,” Longfellow asked in surprise, “that you know this man, Gian Carlo?” A brief wave dismissed the idea. But Longfellow persisted in his concern.
“You seem unwell. The stench is strong, and the stagnation of the air may have caused it to lose its potency—er—well. Perhaps we should move on.”
Lahte now attempted an explanation of his own. “Richard, a man of art … of strong feeling … he can be—” The musico suddenly fumbled for his handkerchief, and held it tightly over his distressed features.
“Something of a shock, I would agree. I, too, have little stomach for viewing death. Though something tells me Mrs. Willett will linger a while longer.”
Charlotte looked up from examining a marred hat she’d found on the beaten dirt of the floor. “Surely, offering a prayer would be appropriate?”
“Hmmm,” Longfellow responded as he led Signor Lahte up the wooden steps set into the soil, both of them rising once more toward warmth and light.
When she was alone, Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment. The tallow candles continued to smoke and sputter. Then, she opened her eyes and slipped behind the table, to lift the head of the corpse with her hands. The neck seemed whole, but the top of the skull was damaged. Even more strange was the fact that the indented area was not at all swollen. This told her he must have died very soon after his injury occurred. Of course, he might also have died from inhaling what he could not swallow.
Nearly overcome by this horrible thought, and the odor, Charlotte looked away; but soon, she forced herself to examine a patch of the matter on the coat more closely. It was unusually dark, and the observation caused her to feel a new shiver of unease.
In another moment she heard a phantom echo of the angelic voice of Gian Carlo Lahte come into her questioning mind, and she felt a sudden rush of warmth. Did he know this stranger? Or had her imagination, too, become overly active? Longfellow had also wondered if his visitor was acquainted with the man—yet why would Signor Lahte not say so, if it was true?
Blowing out both candles, Mrs. Willett climbed the steps and pulled the door closed behind her. At her appearance Longfellow strode forward, while his guest continued to pace slowly among the stones some distance away.
“Are you satisfied, Carlotta? It seems clear to me that he was thrown onto his head.”
“Yes, but—”
“You question, too, where he’s come from. I’ll make a sketch, and send it off to Montagu in Boston. But I believe the signs point to an unsuccessful fellow less than a gentleman, lately arrived from abroad. You will have seen that his hair and skin are similar to those of many Scots and Irishmen … yet somehow, the face reminds me more of the Alps. However, as you’ll agree, physiognomy is not yet a true science. I would much prefer to see a sample of his hand. It’s unfortunate that he carried no papers.”
“The clothing—” she began again.
“That, too, is curious, but inconclusive. As to his pockets—these coins could have come from a number of places, if the gold ducats do suggest the Italian trade. Have you an idea of your own?”
“He appears to have lost some wine, which I presume he drank while on the way here.”
“I will give you no argument there.”
“But when?”
“When?”
“He could hardly have vomited the wine up, I think, after a fall—at least, not if hi
s death was due to the obvious injury. The blow must have come only moments before his heart ceased to beat.”
“Do you refer to the lack of fluid within the depression? You’re probably right. Well, the man’s stomach could have rebelled first. Or he could have gotten off his horse, then lost his stomach, and stumbled. If he next fell back onto a rock …?”
“But how would that explain the great force of the blow? From what I saw, I can hardly believe—”
“All right, he was thrown after he regurgitated, which he managed to do while still on his horse.”
“Perhaps, then, his death was caused by choking, and not the fall. At least that would remove blame from a poor horse—”
“In either case, it would have been accidental; thus, it is no further concern of ours.”
“Still, I wonder. Wouldn’t the village rest more easily if a physician examined him?”
“I suppose it might. Nothing, I hope, points to anything more unusual in your mind?”
“Only the face. Didn’t it seem to you to be quite haggard? He could have suffered a recent illness—perhaps a mortal one. Richard, if the dark matter I saw—”
“He hardly seems jaundiced, if you next mean to tell me he died of yellow fever! And he would have been ill, indeed, probably in the last stages of the disease, to produce what the Spanish call the vomito negro. In that case, I doubt he could have sat a horse all the way from Boston.”
“That’s true. But did he look well to you?”
Longfellow examined her familiar features closely, before he gave his answer.
“It might be best, after all, to post a sign warning others not to enter. Many ills race swiftly through a population … especially, as I think of it, in August and September. And, as Boston is a seaport—yes, I’ll make a sketch, and when I send off my handiwork I’ll enclose a request for Warren to come, just to be safe. It will give him a healthy ride. Now, where has Il Colombo got to? There he is, next to all the Proctors. Shall we take him home? He, too, seems not entirely well; I hope melancholy is all that is wrong with him today.”
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