A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,71

have your business to attend to. But I thank you for your thoughts, Nathan. And please—don't make this common knowledge just yet.”

“I promise you I'll keep my eyes open and my lips shut,” said the blacksmith.

“That would be appreciated. I think we'd better leave you now, or you're likely to get no more visitors today.”

“The shillings?” asked the smith uncomfortably, looking toward the window sill.

“Evidence, I suppose.” Longfellow turned to the captain who'd thus far kept silent, though he'd listened carefully to all that had been said.

“Hold onto them,” Edmund said flatly, surprising them all. “Some day, if you wish, you might sell them for the silver. But don't spend them. Accept any others you're given, and put the names of those who've had them into your head.”

“I won't guarantee I'll be able to keep them there,” the smith replied.

“But such knowledge could be useful one day, if it helps us to identify a murderer.”

“That's hardly something one can overlook, like a pocketful of queer coins, is it?…”

Nathan Browne watched them leave, then whistled softly as he went back to uncover his waiting forge.

Chapter 25

WALKING ONLY A little further, they came to the kitchen door of the inn and entered noisily, clearing their boots of snow. Elizabeth turned from the wide hearth to exclaim at the intrusion. She then greeted the arrivals as neighbors and friends, while her daughter Rebecca made a curtsy.

“What may I do for you, sirs? A pie for your dinner? I have some fresh made, of beef and kidney—”

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” said Longfellow, “but it's the landlord we've come to see today. I'm sorry to make a corridor of your kitchen—”

“Don't apologize, sir! It's good to see you all, though Captain, your return is a special pleasure. Is it not, Mrs. Willett?”

Charlotte reddened, but did not deny they both enjoyed the sight of this handsome officer in military coat and breeches, whose high black boots and gold buttons shone impressively in the firelight.

Once again, Longfellow pondered a curious fact.

Though the village had little respect for most members of the British military establishment (hardly surprising since they'd followed so many blockheads during the last war) it did seem to crave the approval of this one, a son of an English lord who had married, if not quite one of their own, at least something of a compatriot. As to his sister's ambiguous reputation in the village, Longfellow had little doubt.

“Possibly,” he added, “you'll be able to feed the captain at the inn soon enough. My house has become a little crowded, of late.”

“So I hear,” said Elizabeth, giving the captain a new look, full of pity. “To have Mrs. Montagu come to us again, only to find all of this! First the lad, and now an old dame she tended herself, right up to the end! Shocking, that is. I do hope your brave wife is well this morning, Captain?”

“She is, madam. I will tell her you asked.”

“Oh, she would not wish to know—! But I thank you, sir.” The modest woman lowered her head to hide a blush, and kept it so until the others had gone on.

A visit to the taproom showed nothing unusual this quiet morning, except that the place did seem strangely brightened by the new snow, some piled up along the windowsills. Tim, the message boy, sat enjoying a day on which no one, as yet, had asked him to venture out. At a sign from Longfellow, he came to the table as the three sat down.

“Would you know where Mr. Pratt is this morning?”

Tim nodded, his eyes examining the party as he tried to decide what they had come for at this hour. Most in the room were travelers who had little interest in continuing until the roads improved, and instead nursed warming drinks after their large breakfasts.

“He's in his office, sir, working the figures for year's end. Good morning, Mrs. Willett. Glad to see you again, Captain.”

“If he can be bothered, you might tell him we would like a word about another financial matter.”

“A financial matter?” Tim repeated, still curious.

“Exactly.”

“Yes, sir. Then I'll go and see.” Wasting no more time, the boy left with his usual dispatch.

“Your welcome holds, it seems,” Longfellow said to Edmund Montagu. “I wonder how long it will last.”

“Oh, I'm sure they'll all despise me soon enough, as most in Boston do.”

“Has it been difficult, Edmund?” asked Longfellow, a touch more sympathy in his manner.

“The patriots of Boston are always difficult, Richard. Yet I must say