A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,30
unspoken, Charlotte watched Cicero shake a long-handled pan over the coals. An intoxicating perfume continued to rise, as dark beans browned further.
“The longer the bag sat there, the more time there would have been for someone else to disturb it,” she decided.
“This altercation between Lem and Alex Godwin— that's something you saw, I think.”
“So did Sarah Proctor and Jemima Hurd,” she replied unhappily.
“Do they know its cause?”
“They must have assumed, as I did, that the two fought over Martha Sloan.” Charlotte turned to the young man beside her. Lem seemed uncomfortable, but betrayed nothing more. “Was there something else?” she asked.
“It wasn't just me, you know,” Lem answered. “No one liked him! All we did was trade a few words, and a punch or two, I'll admit—but how could I have harmed him, or him me, while we had our coats on? I only meant to show him I would fight, if he wanted.”
“Some time later?” asked Longfellow. “When you could meet away from the crowd?”
“Exactly.”
That was something neither of his questioners had wanted to hear, Lem soon realized. He ducked his head in further embarrassment.
“Did you see him again? Alive?” Longfellow's tone was unchanged, yet he watched the boy more intently, waiting for an answer.
“No. I walked Mattie home so she could finish her chores, and she gave me something to eat—”
“Her sisters were there?”
“A couple of them came in, before I left—”
“What time was that?”
“Around two. Then I went back to the pond, looking for Ned to ask him something… but when I didn't see him I decided I'd better go and do my own chores. I walked up and went straight to the barn, and saw to the eggs before milking.”
“You didn't go into the house?”
“Hannah was there. And I knew Mrs. Willett was still out—I saw her at the pond before I left.”
“You didn't want to be alone with Hannah?”
“After what happened earlier, sir, with Alex, I thought I'd rather not. In case anyone else came up from the ice.”
“What about you, Carlotta? Did you see Lem or Alex on the ice during the afternoon?”
“I'm afraid not. I spoke with you and Diana, and Jonathan, and Reverend Rowe—and Rachel Dudley— and then we walked home.” She recalled the peculiar feeling she'd had the night before, gazing at the patch of dark firs. With a new shiver she wondered if something had forewarned her. Orpheus, too, had been uneasy. In all likelihood, Alexander Godwin already lay there. Might the boy's death have been prevented, if they'd gone then to investigate? From what she'd heard from Lem, she decided the answer must be no. But she knew she needed to see for herself.
She looked back to Longfellow, hoping he'd suggest they go together to learn whatever more they could.
Cicero took the pan from the fire, and slid the beans onto a pewter plate on the kitchen table.
“But now,” asked Longfellow, “what will we do with Lem?”
“What do you mean?” the boy asked, raising frightened eyes.
“I mean that when the village hears of the nature of Godwin's wound, and whose hatchet was found next to him, and that the two of you had words yesterday, some might decide they've heard enough. Which is why you will not go back to Mrs. Willett's. If, instead, you are under a selectman's watchful eye, she may find her neighbors less inclined to pay her an unwanted visit.”
Charlotte recalled an autumn afternoon three years past, when a part of the village had bustled her up from the mill pond to her farmhouse, looking for someone else they believed she'd taken in to hide—someone they were sure had committed murder, and might do so again. Could they now have the same horrible thought about Lem? Suddenly, she remembered others who would be affected by Alexander Godwin's death.
About to speak, she paused when a grinding noise came from a box on the kitchen table. Cicero took only moments to reduce the beans to a rough powder. “I agree with your point,” Charlotte then said, “but first, Richard, might we send Lem off on an errand?”
“An errand?” he asked. “Where would you have him go?”
“To Boar Island. All signs point to a storm, as you predicted. And because it's January, it could be a long one. I don't know if Mrs. Knowles keeps many provisions on hand—”
“An ounce of prevention? Yes, perhaps so. While I haven't met these ladies, I've heard something of their strange situation. But are you acquainted with them?”