A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,73
arm and shoulder—on the right side—the Attorney General had been forced to abandon all business, as he can no longer sign his own name!”
“And you don't think?…”
“Do you?”
“No,” Longfellow said amiably. “I suppose I don't.”
“But perhaps you're right. Friends inform me a growing number of Whigs at home speak out against this business of taxing the colonies, at least for general revenue.”
“And since we all suppose the Whigs will regain power some day soon, it seems preferable to have friends among that party, rather than the thanks of an ungrateful king… whose health is questionable.”
“The reality is, the port is again operating as usual. So your men have already won. The remainder of the courts will soon be opened, as well.”
“Without the stamps.”
“Without the stamps. I, for one, look for the repeal of the Act in the spring.”
“Perhaps,” said Charlotte, catching the men by surprise, “this might have some bearing on our own problem. Of the shillings, I mean.”
“How so, Mrs. Willett?” asked Longfellow.
“If the governor and his men, and our own legislators and judges, have all avoided their duties, and overlooked the law… then can the men of Bracebridge be made to pay too dearly for doing much the same?”
“But here,” Longfellow retorted with a new uneasiness, “surely, it is different. When a whole town participates in illegal activity such as this, and when they have acted against—against—”
“You?” asked Montagu. He smiled suddenly, pleased to see the shoe on another foot. “It does seem that you have been hoodwinked, Richard, by much of Bracebridge. Though perhaps Reverend Rowe is also in the dark. That may be of some comfort.”
“Delightful company,” Longfellow replied with a grimace.
“Oh, I think there are quite a few others,” Charlotte reminded them. “Remember the ladies…”
“Well, yes,” Longfellow admitted.
“The real question,” said Montagu, “is this: what will happen if we throw a large portion of Bracebridge onto a legal system that barely functions? We can no more do this, than Bernard can afford to do what he really wishes to do as governor. He recently believed that the people of Boston were his worst enemy. Now, my sources assure me country men may be even more ready for violence, if the stamp issue is pressed further. Should things worsen, some say, they will refuse to accept Britain's sovereignty entirely!”
The rest had been considered with a sense of amusement on one side or the other; this was a sobering thought. Such a declaration might lead, after all, to a state of open warfare.
“The issues are heady ones,” said Longfellow slowly. “And they're likely to cause passions to become over-strong. But when chaos becomes the acknowledged tool of politicians, and punishment becomes impossible, what do we call the thing we're left with, I wonder?”
Then, they saw Jonathan Pratt, who apparently had troubles of his own.
“Good morning, good morning… good morning,” said the rotund man as he approached them. A hand went to his bulging waistcoat, as if he'd suffered a twinge of dyspepsia.
“Hello, Jonathan,” Longfellow said airily. “How are you today?”
“Not well. The recent excitement has affected my digestion.”
“To which excitement do you refer?”
“The idea that there may well be a murderer in our midst!”
“Of course. Yet rest assured we will get to the bottom of it. At the moment, there is a slight delay—but soon, soon we will begin to move forward. Perhaps by then we'll have sorted out another little matter.”
“You and the captain… have found something else that concerns you?” the landlord asked hesitantly. “Something that goes on in Boston?”
“Partly in Boston, yes. But I believe the root of our trouble is here.”
“Here?” asked Jonathan, his voice strangely hollow.
“Not on this very spot, no. But then again, it's difficult to say. Especially when one has been told very little.”
“I see. Or shall I say, you see? Ha, ha. I myself scarcely know any of the details that might help you. But have you proof?” he asked, suddenly inspired.
“Of a sort.” Longfellow took the shilling he'd found from his pocket, and held it before the landlord's shifting eye. “Would you care to examine it?”
“No need,” Jonathan said slowly. “For I've found many others in my strongbox, while counting up my profits. They are all rather soft, it seems. When I attempted to use one to pry off the frozen cap of my inkwell some days ago, it bent. I might have told you, Richard—but would the knowledge have done more harm than good?”
“Then you weren't told their secret either. I feel just a little better, Jonathan.”