A Mischief in the Snow (15 page)

“Anything you would like to know, you've only to ask,” he told her. For a moment, he appeared to admire the colored yarn of his mitten. He took it off, and revealed what seemed to be a burn on his sooty hand.

“What's that, son?” asked his grandfather, leaning forward.

“Nothing much. The cock of the fowler slipped while I was adding powder, and the flash caught me.”

“That ointment will soothe it,” Jonah assured him, sitting back again as he watched Ned apply what looked like green grease to the webbed area between his left thumb and forefinger.

“But please, Mrs. Willett, go on,” Ned requested, making light of his injury. “You came with a question for me?”

“I've come to ask about a canvas bag. Lem left it near your feet yesterday. Do you remember?”

“Yes, of course. Has he lost it? Maybe at day's end someone picked it up by mistake.”

“Someone took something from it, at least. An ice hatchet.” The young man waited. Seeing his lack of surprise, Charlotte decided that Ned knew nothing of the news the rest of the village hummed with. Out on the marshes, he would not have heard.

“You don't know about Alex Godwin?” she asked.

“What of him?” The young man's tone was suddenly cool.

“He's dead, I'm afraid.”

Ned looked swiftly to his grandfather.

Yet again, Charlotte began to relate how Lem had found the body, while looking for what had already been
stolen by a murderer. She mentioned that Lem and Alex had earlier been seen arguing, hoping Ned would know the reason. By the time she finished, the young man had regained his feet.

“I suppose he was angry with Godwin, Mrs. Willett, and probably for good reason. Alex enjoyed irritating people— he even told stories that weren't true, just to make others as angry as he often was. If he said something malicious about Mattie, then Lem had a right, it seems to me, to try and stop him. Yet it
must
have been someone else who killed him.”

“Have you someone in mind?” she asked.

“Not I! But it wasn't Lem. If anyone thinks
that…
then I suppose I might come up with a name or two. The ‘Little Lord’ insulted most of us, and tempers wear thin, once things have been traded back and forth. But I find it hard to think anyone we know would have murdered him.”

“Mr. Longfellow, Dudley, and the preacher are investigating Godwin's death,” said Jonah. “With the Boston lawyer, Moses Reed,” he added.

“Where do they plan to start?” asked Ned.

“When I left the constable and Mr. Longfellow, they were going off to visit Frances Bowers, and then the Sloans,” Charlotte answered.

“I suppose we can expect them to visit us soon after,” said Ned.

“I have no right to ask anything else… but if you remember something more—?”

“I've long been Lem's friend,” Ned replied firmly. “That won't change. I'll do whatever I can. Where is he now?”

“He's probably still on Boar Island, where he went this morning.”

Once more, Ned looked to his grandfather.

“No doubt he went to see if the women there need any help,” said Jonah. “For they'll be alone, now.”

“Of course. But there's good reason to stay away from the place, Mrs. Willett.”

“So I hear! I was there only two days ago—”

“You've been to the island? Did you find anything unusual?” Ned asked with interest.

“Only a spoon.” She had spoken without thinking. The two men waited for her to say more. “A lost spoon, which I've returned to its owner,” she added. “No ghosts or goblins,” she concluded with a smile.

“You may think such warnings come only from simple folk,” Jonah replied soberly. “Yet odd tales have been told about that place for a long, long while. Once it was called the Devil's Isle—and no one dared to live there before John Fisher came. Is that not a little strange, when it's surrounded by good hunting and fishing, and water meadows? It is because
something
goes on there—something none of us can explain. And such things will continue to occur, I think, long after we're gone.”

Jonah Bigelow sat back and rocked, regarding his guest seriously.

“I promise I'll keep what you say in mind,” she said to soothe him. “But I must start for home, before the storm truly arrives. Thank you for tea, and your stories.”

“Will you come back to visit us again, lass? I should like to hear what you discover about poor Godwin. And I still have plenty of other stories to tell.”

“I would be very glad to come.”

“Good! And Ned knows even more about the distant world than his grandfather, reading so many books and newspapers. The islands to the south are his passion now. He will tell you all that's said of the pirates of
the Bahamas—or our colony at Kingston—or trade with Tobago, even—if you'd like to hear of such things.”

“I would,” she answered honestly, for she'd wondered what Ned learned from his varied sources, surely different from the volumes in her father's library.

Yet now, she thought, she had no time to hear exciting tales of distant lands. For without a doubt, they had more than enough excitement of their own to deal with, in Bracebridge.

F
ACING A BITING
wind, Charlotte trudged up the Boston-Worcester road, with only her thoughts to temper the difficult going.

She'd heard that Alex Godwin was less than a pleasant soul; she now was sure he'd enjoyed few friends. What had truly surprised her was that Lem often visited Ned and Jonah Bigelow. She knew he went off to see others some evenings, but he'd rarely said, lately, where it was that he went. She imagined Ned, unlike Alex Godwin, had many friends, for he had an enjoyable way about him—a desire, and an ability, to please. But she supposed his friends might be quiet ones. Some would wish to avoid having fingers wagged at them by village scolds. Could it be that Lem put her in this category? She thought not, and asked herself again why he would want to keep his visits to the odd little house a secret. Perhaps it was because of Hannah. The displeasure of Mattie's mother was something he would not care to risk, while he tried to win her daughter.

Jonah's story of the furnaces had been interesting. Again, she considered how much the present owed to the past, and how often this debt remained unpaid. Life had given little reward to Jonah, it seemed. Some, like Sarah Proctor, organized assistance for widowed or abandoned women and their children. But Jonah Bigelow, she supposed, made do with what he'd saved, and possibly what he'd invested somewhere. It could also be that relatives to the west, grateful for the care he'd given Ned, continued to help them. It was not her place to ask, though perhaps when she next stopped in, she might see if there was something else she could do.

A pair of high voices broke into her thoughts, for they called out her name. Turning her back to the wind, Charlotte saw a horse that carried two children somewhat precariously, on a makeshift saddle of rope and blankets strapped to its bowed back. The Dudley children, Winthrop and Anne, waved their arms, trying to attract her attention.

She walked back to meet them, and soon felt the nuzzle of a moist, warm mouth against her own.

“Whoa, mare!” cried Win, a youth of thirteen. Still holding the reins, he slipped down from the saddle leaving Anne, four years his junior, on top. “Mrs. Willett!” he cried, moving very close, then stepping back to make a small bow. “I have a message from my mother. I'm glad I found you, before we had to go all the way up the hill. We borrowed a horse from our neighbor, but she's not very willing and would rather go home!”

“As we should all be thinking of doing, Win,” said Charlotte, blocking the wind from him as best she could. “Is something wrong?”

“It's only that our father—well, Mother's not happy. About her spoons.”

“Oh, I see.”

“He wouldn't go and look for them, after somebody came and took them away.” The boy stopped and began to shuffle his feet, staring down at them until his nose began to run. He quickly brought up a mitten to absorb some of the moisture. “But now they're back.”

“What?
All
of them?”

“Yes. Mother wanted me to tell you that, and to bring you this.” He hopped back to his sister, who took something from beneath her cloak where it had been providing her slight body with an extra layer of warmth. “Hello, Mrs. Willett!” she called down, her voice quivering from the cold.

“Good day, Anne!” Charlotte called back. “What is it you've brought me?”

At first she imagined it would be a small gift, something to thank her for returning the spoon. Then she saw that it was the canvas bag she'd been seeking. It passed from Anne's mittened hands to Win's, and then to her own. Inside lay the scarf with a snowflake pattern—the one she'd knitted herself.

“Mother says she recognized whose it was as soon as she saw my father brought it home with him last night,” Win said. “And she said instead of returning it when she came to visit, she'd send it now. She also wanted us to find my father, and tell him he needs to come home.”

“He's with Mr. Longfellow,” Charlotte told them. “Try the Sloan house. If he's not there yet, you might leave a message. But you and Anne should then go home. Look—!”

Fat flakes suddenly filled the air.

“Come on, Win,”
his sister cried, bouncing on the strange saddle. “Good-bye, Mrs. Willett!”

“Good-bye, Anne. Tell your mother that I look forward
to seeing her! You, too, if you'd like to come for tea. Thank her for the return of the bag!”

“I will,” came the faint voice, from inside the girl's cloak.

“There's one more message!” the boy exclaimed, turning back from the horse, who'd already made a dancing turn toward the west.

“What's that?” asked Charlotte.

“She said—she said my father told her not to say anything more about the spoons, or what happened to them. And he says he knows who took them, too.”

“Who?”

“Some imp of Satan, my father says. They've long lived across from us on the isle. Now they're doing the Devil's work, trying to make it seem my father's not doing his job. That's why they came across to take the spoons, probably by magic, and put them back the same way. To make him look foolish while he's constable.”

“What does your mother say to that, Win?”

“She says she isn't sure. But at least she's not as angry as she was before. She will be, though, if I don't bring Anne home, now that the snow's started. Will you hold the reins?”

The boy held out the long leather straps. He put his foot in a loop of rope and slowly hoisted himself up, while his bulky winter clothing fought against him. At last he settled himself in front of his sister, and reached down for the reins. Within moments, the horse started eagerly for the river bridge and the north road beyond.

“Thank you!” Charlotte called after them, holding up the bag. The children did not seem to hear. Very soon they were lost in the thickly falling snowflakes. Waiting no longer, she clutched her cloak, bent her head, and made her own way toward home.

Suddenly, halfway up the hill, the wind slowed, and for a while the snow fell like powder about Charlotte's head. Passing the Bracebridge Inn, she looked closely, but saw no one out. Yet when she looked left toward Richard Longfellow's front lawn, she saw a woman walking toward her.

The hooded cloak of black sealskin told her it must be Diana, picking her way carefully over slush that had long ago frozen into peaks and valleys; now, these were receiving a new and treacherous coating of pure white. Even though Diana extended her arms for balance, it seemed likely she could lose her footing at any moment.

It was a relief to them both when the young woman finally gained the road. She reached through her cloak, and her neighbor's, to clutch Charlotte's arm. They stood together a moment, looking with wonder at the sky. It was a greenish-gray; white flakes caught all the light that remained, falling in a dizzying display against the bleak background.

“Richard had already gone off when I awoke,” Diana complained petulantly. “And no one else has been to see me all day! Cicero said you were away, but he wouldn't tell me where—and then he hid my shoes. It took me an hour to find the boots I'm wearing, which I'm sorry to say are
his
—”

“Come with me, then. He can guess what's become of you,” Charlotte added, having already seen someone looking out of a tall window across the yard. “I would appreciate some advice, since I've heard a great deal today.”

“Is Hannah not there?”

“Before I left this morning, Henry came up to tell me his mother's sciatica is troubling her again.”

“Then I'll gladly come and keep you company. I will be happy to hear
anything
new. What's going on down there?”
she asked, looking briefly over her shoulder. “Clearly, it's something that interests both you and my brother. Is it left over from yesterday's fête?”

“In a way,” Charlotte answered. The storm took her next words, and flung them far down the hill toward Bracebridge. Holding on to the young woman at her side, she hurried them both along through curtains of snow.