The Revelation of Louisa May (18 page)

She returned to Finch's body to look closely at his torso, keeping her eyes averted from the bullet hole. His pockets were turned inside out. There was no wallet. Louisa clearly remembered Finch's wallet, thick with bills. Maybe this was a simple robbery gone terribly awry? She pulled away his coat, gently, from his body. Finch's pistol was gone. Very few people in Concord carried weapons. Finch was most likely shot with his own gun and then the killer took it with him.

Or her? The memory of Miss Whittaker's agitation was fresh in Louisa's mind. Had Miss Whittaker been here? And if she had shot Finch, where was the pistol? Miss Whittaker's corseted gown couldn't have concealed a gun, and she had not been carrying a purse when Louisa saw her at the hotel.

Was there anything else Finch's body could tell her? She had to work quickly. Once the authorities arrived, they wouldn't welcome her interference. Louisa felt the fabric of his coat. It was damp. Now that she was looking, Finch's face was wet, too. That was from the brief rain shower. She lifted his shoulder just enough that she could touch his coat underneath the body. It was dry. So Finch was probably already dead when it had rained; otherwise his coat would be wet front and back.

Would the same logic work for Father? She went to him. “Father?”

“Yes,” he said.

She was relieved that he seemed more lucid. Under the guise of offering him another drink, she managed to examine his coat. His front was dry while the back was wet.

She cast her mind back to how she had first seen her father. He had been getting to his feet. If his story was true and he was struck from behind, then he would have fallen forward. Yes, she could see a smear of dirt on his forehead. When it rained, he had been lying facedown on the ground. That surely gave credence to his story that he was unconscious when Finch was killed—otherwise who struck him down? It was more important than ever to find the missing pistol.

She circled the clearing again. Still no pistol, but there was a pile of bizarrely shaped boughs from apple trees at the north end of the clearing, the side closest to Hillside. She wondered if they were from the pile that George had been assembling at the Alcotts' orchard not too far from here.

How did they get here? The path in that direction went directly to Hillside. Had George been here? Father might have countermanded her orders that George stay hidden. She turned to ask him, but one glance at her father's pale face and she reconsidered.

She went into the gazebo. It resembled a temple from some ancient time. Made entirely of wood found in the area, it might have sprung up out of the landscape like Jack's beanstalk. There were nine entrances, each representing a Muse. Inside there were no square corners and the roof
seemed to dip in the center; no one dared ask Bronson if it was deliberate. The whimsical door was the final accent to the fantastical design.

There was nothing inside except a few strawberry hulls on the ground. New strawberries. How did they get here? Did Beth bring them? But in what? Louisa didn't see a basket.

She could hear voices approaching and she knew she was out of time. Louisa returned to her father's bench. “Father, the sheriff is here,” she said.

Her father was groggy but opened his eyes. His pupils were dilated, and she worried that the blow to his head had done serious damage. She hoped that Fred had brought a doctor, too.

“Father, you mustn't say anything, all right? You don't remember anything.”

With a semblance of his usual authority, he said, “Louisa, I told you. I
don't
remember anything.”

“Good. That's your story and you must not stray from it.”

He stared at her with slightly unfocused eyes.

“Father, let me be blunt . . .”

“Are you capable of speaking any other way?” His words had a nasty edge to them.

“If you insist,” Louisa said, steeling herself to be brutally honest. “Your story is improbable to say the least. If you are telling the truth . . .”

“If!” He drew himself up, wincing.

She held up a hand to silence him, all the while listening and gauging how far away the sheriff and doctor were. “Even if your story is true, no one will believe it. So when asked, say you don't remember. In the meantime, I'll try to figure out what happened.”

“Louisa, you're being presumptuous and bossy. Just like your mother.”

Tears sprang to Louisa's eyes. What she wouldn't give for Marmee to be here at this moment.

“I forbid you to get involved.” Her father went on, “It's your job to take care of the house, not pry into murders.”

“Father, you may soon find yourself grateful for my inquisitive mind.”

Fred arrived at the edge of the clearing. His face was flushed and anxious. He jerked his head behind him. A moment later, the sheriff and his deputy appeared.

Sam Staples, the local sheriff, tax collector, and jailer, was a dark-haired man of medium height. He was well liked in town. His reputation for fairness reassured Louisa. He would not judge anyone without considering all the evidence.

At the moment, he was staring at the corpse in the center of the clearing. His deputy, James Beckett, an older, dull-looking man who also worked as the town blacksmith, hung back waiting for orders. Trailing both of them was a tall older man wearing a black suit that hung on his rangy frame.

“Dr. Bartlett!” Louisa cried out. “My father has been injured. He requires your attention.” The doctor started for Bronson.

Sheriff Staples knelt by the body. Looking up, he said in his laconic way, “There's no hurry to see this one, Doc. The only attention he needs is from an undertaker.”

A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery,
she thought,
and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest
.

T
he sheriff's approach to the scene of the crime was very methodical. First Dr. Bartlett examined Bronson Alcott's head. Once Dr. Bartlett said Bronson was fit enough to talk, Sheriff Staples asked some basic questions. Bronson stuck faithfully to his story. He had been alone. He remembered nothing. He had never even met Mr. Finch. Then Bronson closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.

“Sheriff, I think you should stop now. He needs to rest,” Dr. Bartlett warned.

The deputy folded his arms and stared at Bronson with deep-rooted suspicion. Louisa thought ruefully that her father's eccentricities had left him vulnerable. The deputy would believe Bronson was capable of anything.

Stroking his chin, the sheriff walked the perimeter of the clearing. Like Louisa, he didn't find a gun. He poked inside the gazebo, keeping a close eye on the sagging roof as though he expected it to fall in on him. He came out and began interrogating Louisa and Fred.

“Mr. Llewellyn, you're a visitor?” he asked.

Fred nodded. “I'm an old friend of the Alcotts'. I'm staying with them.”

“And why did you come up here today?”

Fred hesitated, glancing at Louisa. She shook her head almost imperceptibly; the sheriff didn't need to know why Fred was looking for Bronson. “I wanted to see the gazebo.” He waved toward the strange structure that had sprung fullblown from Bronson's imagination.

“And what did you see when you arrived?”

“Mr. Finch was lying there dead. That was shocking enough, but then I saw Mr. Alcott on the ground, unconscious.”

“Did you hear a shot?”

“I think I did,” Fred said. “But I didn't think anything of it. You often hear shots in the woods.”

“Where were you when you heard it?”

“On the path coming from the Emersons'.”

“Was this before or after the rain?”

Louisa's estimation of the sheriff went up.

Fred considered. “It was before the rain.” Louisa lost her train of thought as she watched Fred unconsciously stroke his wet curls.

“And did you see anyone else?” the sheriff asked. “Anyone lurking about the scene or running away?”

“No. I was distressed about Mr. Alcott.” Fred held out his hands in apology. “I wouldn't have noticed a marching regiment.”

“Are you acquainted with the dead gentleman?”

Fred's eyes rested on the body. “I met him only this morning. His name is Finch.”

Louisa remembered something. “I have his card,” she said, pulling it from her pocket and handing it to the sheriff.

“Russell Alexander Finch,” he read. Then glancing at Fred, he asked, “And where did you meet him?”

“Miss Alcott and I met him while we were out walking near Walden Pond.”

The deputy spoke for the first time. “What time was that?”

“A little before noon, I think,” Fred answered, glancing at Louisa for confirmation. “He said he had an appointment in town and he left.”

“And you didn't see him again?”

“Not until I found him like this.” Fred pointed at Finch's still body.

“So what did you do then?” the sheriff asked.

“I made sure that Mr. Alcott was still breathing and would be all right for a few minutes, then I ran for help. I met Miss Alcott on her way here. She went ahead to see to her father. I was winded, so I sent Mrs. Emerson's servant to fetch you. You know the rest.”

The sheriff frowned. “You let Miss Alcott come here alone?”

With a rueful grin, Fred said, “Try to stop Louisa from doing what she wants.”

“He couldn't have stopped me!” Louisa said in the same instant.

A smile flitted across Sheriff Staples's face. “Very well. Miss Alcott, what did you see when you got here?”

“My father was on the ground, holding his head.” She glanced at her father, dozing on the bench. “Dr. Bartlett, are you sure he is all right? I'd like to bring him home.”

Dr. Bartlett said, “He'll be fine for a few minutes.”

The sheriff cleared his throat. “You didn't see anyone else, Miss Alcott? Or notice anything unusual?”

She shook her head.

“Did you hear the shot?”

“I was with Mrs. Emerson. We both heard it.”

“Do you know what time it was?”

“I was thinking about that,” she said. “I think it must have been nearly three o'clock.”

“Thank you,” he said, writing it down in a little notebook. “I'm sure Mrs. Emerson will confirm that.”

The sheriff called his deputy over to Finch's body. They conferred in low voices. Louisa edged closer so she could overhear. She waited to see how competent this man was before she would reveal any of her own deductions.

“His pockets are turned out. This is most likely a robbery that went wrong,” the sheriff said.

His deputy disagreed. “Who would come out here looking to rob someone? I think Alcott's story is suspicious. He might have a reason for shooting this fellow that we don't know about.”

“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.