A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,39

said Phineas Wise, going by with a tray and tankards. No one else ventured anything more. Having been rebuffed enough, the farmer took up his pewter vessel and left them.

“The fewer who know what's on the island, the safer those women will be,” Tinder commented belatedly to the customer's back.

“Damned foolish, if you ask me, them living there alone.” This conclusion came from Samuel Sloan, who'd crowded in at the table nearest to the fire; moments before, he'd set down linen for the sleeping rooms upstairs, which his daughters had washed. “Far better for us if Old Cat and Mad Maud would come down from there, and go off to live in Boston. Though they're peculiar, they would find plenty of company in that place, I'm sure!”

“It would be safer,” Dick Craft agreed.

“Do you mean, Dick, because of the sh—sh—sh—?”

What Jack had begun to ask was swiftly stopped by a kick from Samuel Sloan's boot, given under the table. Jack let out a yelp; Flint and Tinder looked at one another and clicked their tongues. Somewhat chastened, Jack dipped his head, then gave a few sidelong glances to see what damage had been done.

“Don't go too far, Pennywort,” Samuel Sloan growled a moment later, after he'd surveyed the other customers. “Or it could be all of our skins, and not just your own hide.” Seeing the unfortunate effect of his words—for Jack now seemed about to weep into his third serving of ale—he raised a finger and pointed to the landlord, letting him know who would pay for another. “Only keep what you've learned under your hat, won't you, lad?” he added.

Jack snuffled, and brought forth a smile.

Further comment was interrupted when someone flung open the front door, letting in the wind and a stupendous piece of news.

“There's a body in the reverend's cellar!” The speaker was Amos Flagg, a cobbler who lived by the common.

“What?” came from many throats, as everyone sat up and stared.

“Brought in just now by Mr. Longfellow and Mrs. Willett—both of them in with Reverend Rowe. And who do you think it is?”

“Who?” called Mr. Flint in a high, excited voice, asking for them all.

“It's Alexander Godwin—frozen solid!”

This caused a somewhat lower muttering to begin. Strangely, thought Phineas Wise, who now stood by the ale barrels, one or two even seemed to hide slight smiles. Watching looks pass from man to man, the landlord felt a doubled pang of uneasiness.

“How?” a voice called out.

It seemed that the cobbler had not explored as fully as he'd intended, once he'd gone down and lifted the tarpaulin, to stare into a frost-flecked face with clouded, bulging eyes. He shrugged as he told the little more he knew.

“Can't say for sure. But he was a big, healthy boy, and he wasn't ill, was he? Nearly knocked someone down just yesterday! And he's laid out flat, so I doubt he died of cold. Though he's frostbound now.”

Before much longer, several men had decided to go and examine the body more closely; a small party formed at the door, then went out together. But by that time others had gone out quietly on the same mission, through the kitchen in back. More simply sat, and by the looks on their faces, there was a general idea that the young man's death had been no accident.

No one, thought Phineas Wise, had yet mentioned murder. But had they assumed otherwise?

“Mr. Wise,” said Jack Pennywort, his voice unsteady, his face unusually pale as he brought his poor foot from under the table.

“Yes, Jack?”

“I think I shall go, now. W-w-will you sell me a b-b-bottle of brandy, to take along? I have another sh-sh-sh—” It seemed he could not bring himself to utter the word, though he set a fresh coin on the table.

The landlord picked up the shilling, studied it intently, and gave it back.

“I think not. Go home, Jack,” he said kindly. This only gave the little man further distress, and he began to whimper.

The landlord scratched his stubbled cheek solemnly, and said a silent prayer for them all.

Chapter 13

WHEN THEY LEFT Reverend Rowe's stone house Charlotte watched the minister walk off in one direction, while Longfellow and Constable Dudley took another. She chose a third, glad that she didn't have far to go.

She walked for a few moments toward the river on the main road, then turned into a narrow lane. Beneath bare elms at the corner stood the freshly painted house of Hiram and Emily Bowers. She followed a flagstone path