“A hoofprint! Someone has ridden up here, and not so long ago.”
“The horse was shod, as well.”
Salali looked about. “There’s another, over by that oak.”
“Excellent! Also, observe the taller plants to your right, which have been nibbled on. You agree the teeth marks are more equine than cervine?”
“I would…”
Cavish did not wait for Salali to finish. “I must be away for a few days. I need to borrow a horse. Feel free to help yourself to the squirrel and rabbit in my smokehouse while I’m gone.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’m working that out now.”
“When will you return?”
But Shannon Cavish was already halfway down the slope, out of earshot.
• • •
Four days later, Salali stood at the front of their dry goods store, watching Dagatoga help load a customer’s wagon. A flicker in the shadows across the way caught her eye. The woman made a quick hand-gesture in that direction, exaggerated slightly to ensure her husband noticed, then slipped inside and moved to the back of the store, which also served as their living quarters.
She unlatched the rear door. A moment later a figure dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and cotton pants, both streaked with black, slipped inside. Shannon Cavish’s hands and face were likewise soiled and discolored.
Salali nodded. “You saw the note I left you, then. Let me get you some water.”
“Appreciated. I came at once. Didn’t bother to change. You said it was urgent.”
“I see Henry the coal miner has been visiting our neighboring towns.”
“Henry has picked up some useful information. Of course, that’s his purpose.”
“Tell me later.” She handed over a tin cup, which her friend accepted greedily. “My news first. The mood in Wattles has gotten ugly while you were away. As you guessed, poor Mary was indeed pregnant.”
“I told you it was more than a guess. Go on.”
“Every man in the village, even my dear husband, has come under scrutiny as the possible father—and of course is suspected of committing the murder as well, to conceal the fact. Dermott in particular has had it rough, after his loud opposition to the autopsy. Families are being torn apart. Lifelong friends avoid each other. Wattles will not survive the year like this. We must discover the killer. Soon.”
“Oh, that’s the easy part. I’ve known who it was since our visit to the hanging tree, and had already guessed as much earlier. You’d know, too, if you took a moment to think about it.”
“I assume, then, you have eliminated Dermott as the killer?”
“Lord, yes. That poor man is simply obsessed with the sanctity of the human body. His mother’s corpse was stolen by medical students when he was a boy.” Cavish met Salali’s inquiring eyes. “You did not know this?”
“He never speaks of his childhood.”
“Bits and pieces, Salali. Bits and pieces. Just put the fragments together.”
“You know so much about these people, I’m surprised you ever need my information.”
“You are an additional set of eyes and ears, Salali, even if you don’t always interpret what you see and hear correctly. I am more than grateful for your input.” Streaks of sweat marred coal-streaked cheeks. “I’ve spent the last few days verifying my suspicions. Unfortunately, none of what I discovered is enough to convince a jury of our townsfolk, considering the man’s status. And mine own, either as pariah or hermit.”
“Then I fear the whole town will fall victim to this infamy.”
“That will not happen, I promise you.” Cavish scowled. “I have grown quite fond of Wattles and its people, though I don’t show it. They treat me as an outcast, true, but that is as much my decision as theirs. More, in fact. I will see justice done.”
“How do you expect to ease this discord, if neither Sin Eater nor the town hermit can expose the true killer? Will Henry spread the word, or one of your other personas? Would they be any more believable?”
“It’s simple. The Sin Eater will visit each villager, read their sins, and absolve them of these particular crimes.”
Salali frowned. “You have never demonstrated such a power. They will not accept it.”
“They will, because I will reveal their own sins to them, one by one. In private, of course. I would not add to the community’s distress with tales of further indiscretions. Could Dagatoga and yourself kindly spread the word?”
“Calling at their homes could be dangerous. Few would be comfortable dealing personally with a Sin Eater.”
“Once I prove myself, to avoid me could be construed an admission of guilt.”
“And if you do uncover the murderer, what’s to stop him from ending your life as well?”
“That, too, would be an admission of guilt. But there is no danger of that happening, my friend, because the killer is not from this town.”
“At least let Dagatoga and myself set up a temporary shed behind the store for you to use for these interviews. People are more likely to go along with your plan if you do not actually invade their homes, and my husband and I would be nearby should you need assistance.”
Shannon offered a rare smile. “An excellent idea! And you wondered why I rely on your aid and advice?”
• • •
Over the ensuing fortnight, the makeshift shed behind Dagatoga’s store was visited by every man—Dermott was among the first—most of the women, and a handful of curious children from the town and the surrounding homesteads, as well as a few intrigued transients. Many of their transgressions were already known to the hermit, or guessed at from years of observation. Others were unveiled as the subjects reacted to various items strategically placed on a shelf along one wall or the small table separating the sin reader from the one being read. A battered silver flask on which one’s man’s eyes lingered a moment too long told the Sin Eater he was not as devoted to his wife’s tenets of temperance as he would have the town believe. The widow Brady nervously playing with buttons from both Confederate and Union Army uniforms not only confirmed a previous assessment that she had disguised herself as a man to fight in War Between the States—Cavish was personally all too familiar with those indications in the woman’s bearing and attitude—but also revealed she initially fought for the South before changing sides.
It was agreed that, just as the Sin Eater was under a vow to never reveal the sins ingested of the dead, each individual’s moments of weakness would remain private—save of course that of Mary MacDonald’s murderer. In most cases, a mere hint at the nature of the sin, without specifics, was enough to convince those interviewed of the Sin Eater’s ability to read their sins—though not take them away, as that could only be done at the point of death.
On the last day, with no one left to face their guilt, Salali began clearing items off the shelf and table. “That cloak desperately needs a washing,” the shopkeeper chided, sniffing.
“It is the stench of multiple sins,” her friend responded. “And the result of sitting in a heavy wool cloak for hours on end in mid-summer.”
“I’ve never known the town so quiet,” Salali added. “Being confronted with one’s sins seems to make one quite introspective.”
“My fellow humans are an endless source of fascination. Many were completely unaware they had ever sinned, not truly, until I pointed out the meanings of certain thoughts and actions. We can but hope their new self-knowledge does not lead to an increase in the sin of Pride.” Sadly, the Sin Eater added, “I regret this effort alone will not give Shayla MacDonald the closure she needs. My work is not yet done.”
“Anything you care to share?”
“I am sworn to name no names, but a handful of the men hold carnal thoughts of you.”
Salali laughed. “I don’t need your uncanny skills to guess who. I wish one or two of them had come by when I was wearing your cloak to read the sins of that sinister hermit, Shannon Cavish.” She met her friend’s eyes.
“You never offered to read my sins.”
“My dear Salali! I only pretended to read Dagatoga’s to assure the townsfolk of his innocence! I well know what the two of you have done in the past. Those actions, though they may seem brutal to some, saved both my life and my sanity. If any dare condemn either of you for what you did, they will answer to me! We speak no more of that.”
Salali shrugged. “Given these reminders of their flawed humanity, I imagine there will be quite a turnout when Brother Jason returns next week.”
“Thursday, is it not? He is coming from Carsonville?”
“I’ve told you that several times. Not like you to be forgetful.”
“Just confirming. I have some business outside of Wattles, and will not return before the preacher’s arrival. I require you to perform one vital service in my absence.”
“Speak it. I know you do not ask favors lightly.”
“You must persuade Shayla MacDonald to hold another memorial service for her daughter that Thursday. One at which a proper minister of the Lord can preside.”
“That is all?”
“Not quite.” In a hushed tone, Shannon Cavish added more specific instructions.
• • •
Brother Jason rode slowly up to the MacDonald homestead, surveying the gathering. He looked thinner than on his last visit, his features slightly more drawn; the hardships of being a circuit preacher were starting to take their toll, Salali surmised.
The shopkeeper was one of three women who initially came forward to greet him. She was nowhere near as much of a believer as other townsfolk, but appreciated the sense of community their faith created.
“Preacher!” she welcomed. “So glad you could stop here before going into town.”
The preacher responded with a self-deprecating hand-wave. “When word reached me of this gathering, I could hardly not show. I regret being unable to return when I first heard of the child’s death, but I was obliged to fulfill my rounds.”
Two more figures slowly approached: a woman in mourning dress and veil, and a somber-faced man who kept a tight grip on the woman’s hand. Other townsfolk gradually circled the preacher as he dismounted.
Salali nodded toward the pair. “These are Mary’s parents, Desmond and Shayla MacDonald.”
“I remember.” He extended a hand. “Though I met your family only briefly, your daughter was a delightful child. Her loss was truly a tragedy.”
“Bless you, Brother Jason.” Shayla’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. “We held a funeral, of course, at which the Sin Eater assured us Mary’s soul would enter Heaven as pure as the day she was born…”
The preacher’s lips twitched. He seemed ready to interrupt, but apparently thought better of it. He’d stated clearly, in his first sermon in Wattles, what he thought of the kind of rabble who would appropriate the duties of a proper minister, taking advantage of backwoods superstition for a few dollars and a quick meal.
“…but it’s close to two months since she’s been gone, and still I grieve,” Mrs. MacDonald continued. “I’ve been advised that perhaps a man of the cloth can best ease my loss. I am grateful to my neighbor Salali for suggesting this second memorial.”
“And rightly, too,” Brother Jason agreed. “Shall we go inside?”
“We held the first service out here, Brother Jason,” Desmond replied. “It seemed fitting, given Mary’s fondness for the outdoors. We wish to repeat that circumstance. Most of the people you see here attended then.”
“Of course, Desmond. I am no stranger to outdoor preaching. I believe I have just the passage with which to start the healing.” Brother Jason rummaged in his saddlebag and pulled out his Bible. As he did so, a small bit of wood, the size of a small coin, bounced free, striking the ground at his feet.
Salali started forward. The woman beside her, Rosalind, got there first and picked it up. So much the better.
“Pardon me, Brother Jason,” Rosalind said. “I think you lost a button.”
“Eh?” The preacher looked down at his coat. “No. All accounted for.”
“Are you sure? There’re bits of thread looped in it.”
“May I?” Salali took the item, holding it up for a closer examination. “This isn’t thread. It looks like hair. Reddish, though it’s hard to tell.”
“It’s a fine piece,” Rosalind added. “Hand-carved, with a tiny fox-head. The carving is near as fine as your own work, Shayla.”
Mrs. MacDonald leaned back against her husband, then straightened. “Let me see.”
Salali handed her the button.
The woman’s face grew pale. “This…this button is from Mary’s dress. The dress she was wearing when she…when we found her.”
“And in which we buried her,” Desmond added tersely. “We thought Dr. Fletcher had been careless when we noticed the missing button.” He glared at the preacher.
Brother Jason stepped back. “I’ve never seen that thing before. I swear, by my God! That button could have come from anywhere.”
Shayla glowered. “I made that dress myself for Mary, Brother Jason. My fingers carved this button! I know my handiwork! The fox was Mary’s favorite animal! These strands of hair—red hair—my daughter’s hair!”
Rosalind looked at her own hand, horrified to have held even briefly such a grisly memento. “You sick bastard!” she spat.
The townsfolk closed in.
• • •
The trial took less than an hour, Hiram Jones presiding; most of that time was spent setting up the venue. Wattles was not about to wait weeks for a circuit judge to come by, not in a case so clear-cut. Who could fault them? Certainly not Salali.
By the time the Sin Eater appeared, cloak flapping in the warm summer breeze, the sun was past its zenith, a scaffold had been erected in the center of town, and the condemned man stood in place, noose around his neck. A few had debated hanging him from the tree where Mary MacDonald had been found, but the consensus was that holding the execution there would blemish the girl’s memory. And Brother Jason’s disgrace needed to be as public as possible.
“Sin Eater!” the elder Mullen brother, acting as executioner, called out. “Your timing could not be more apt! We are preparing a feast for you!”
The pariah’s presence was as a rule barely acknowledged, must less greeted so robustly. Cavish suspected few onlookers saw this impending death as an occasion for mourning.
“May I…read his sins first?” The sonorous, high-pitched tones echoed faintly.
Mullen snorted. “There’s little point. He’s confessed all: the fornication, the murder—double murder, as he knew the poor girl carried his child.”
“So I gather,” the Sin Eater replied. More than one bruised set of knuckles could be seen among the crowd.
“I’m tempted,” said Shayla MacDonald, who’d watched the assemblage with grim satisfaction, “to deny the Sin Eater this meal. Let the bastard face his God with his sins intact.” She turned to her husband. “Does that make me a bad person?”
Salali, standing within earshot, shook her head. “It makes you human, Shayla.”
The cloaked figure gestured again toward the condemned man, in inquiry.
“I don’t see the harm,” the hangman responded. “Come on up, Sin Eater.”
The Sin Eater climbed the steps slowly to avoid stumbling over the cloak’s hem, and paused within a yard of Brother Jason. “Do you know me?”
“I know of you,” the preacher replied through bloody lips. One eye was swollen shut; the other squinted. “I admit I’ve put little stock in these foreign superstitions. Still, if there is the smallest chance of my receiving absolution, I shall be grateful for your efforts.”
The Sin Eater leaned in, repeating the question in a harsh whisper, so low not even the Mullen brother could hear. “Do you know me?” The hood of the woolen cloak pulled back slightly, and the scarf lowered a fraction. Only the condemned man could see the face beneath. A face with a smug grin and glittering eyes.
“The stableboy who helped to prepare your horse—and saddlebags—as you were leaving Carsonville. Yes. I reveal this to you, and you alone, because I wish your last moments to be filled not with peaceful acceptance of your fate, but with anger, and hate, and betrayal.” Replacing the hood and scarf, the Sin Eater’s voice rose, loud enough to be heard by all: “No, preacher, I will not take on your sins. They are too foul, even for one as cursed as I. We are done here.” The shrouded figure turned to go.
“No! Tell them…!”
The trapdoor was sprung.
The Sin Eater slowly descended the steps and started out of town, but not before pausing before Shayla MacDonald. “What you wished for, for this monster, you now have. The sin, if sin there be, is not on your soul, but mine own.”
Salali was last among the gathering to see the cloaked figure vanish into the twilight.
• • •
Well past noon the following day, Salali made her way to Shannon Cavish’s cabin. She heard the fiddle tune long before spotting the home, recognized Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times” played at an even slower, dirge-like rhythm than usual.
The fiddler perched on a favorite stump at the front of the cabin, back toward her. The music stopped as she drew nearer.
“You’re better at sneaking up on people, Salali, when you don’t try. The long silences between footsteps betray you.”
“I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you,” Salali countered.
Cavish turned with a knowing glance.
“Very well, I was, this time.” The woman lowered herself cross-legged to the ground in front of her friend. “A bit of a startle would serve you right.”
The fiddle was carefully set aside. “On the subject of betrayal, I fear I may have betrayed your trust.”
“Then you think me a fool, which is worse.”
Her reward was a sharp laugh. “Never that, my dear Salali. Never that. You have questions for me.”
“I do. I understand how the bruising on Mary’s neck, being in a straight line rather than v-shaped, led to your concluding she was murdered. I also see why the timing of Brother Jason’s departure before the discovery of Mary’s body aroused your early suspicions. That might have been coincidence, yet you never doubted his guilt.”
Baker Street Irregulars Page 20
