A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,75

at last, “it's because we do trust you, sir. You are a man we all respect—and we expect you to do what's right. It's what I feel in all of our dealings, for you've never been unfair with me, even if you do come to us from Boston. I feel the same about Mrs. Willett, who I know I wronged once—but she forgave me, didn't she? She's a good, honest lady. But that's another reason why we never told you. For we thought then she might find out, as well.”

“About the shillings?”

“About whatever it is you may mean, Mr. Longfellow, sir.”

“Yes…”

“And it wasn't your being a selectman, sir. For most of them do know, and in fact joined right in! With whatever you may be imagining.”

“Ah-ha! That is interesting. Well, let it never be said I took advantage of a man over a glass of—what is that you've got there, Jack?”

“Rum, sir! Today it is rum, for I remembered a seaman once told me it will ward off anything. And that is how I plan to continue, as long as I can afford it,” he finished bravely.

“Rum, then, it will be, until this fails… or you do.” Once more, Longfellow retrieved the tainted shilling, and set it down on the table. Giving the matter a second thought, he picked it up and replaced it with another of full value.

“What we remember, Jack,” he said seriously, “is worth more than silver, or gold. Remembrances of friends, of kindnesses, of love—even of shameless flattery. All of these retain real value, I think, in the midst of chaos.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Longfellow, sir!” Jack cried as he raised an arm, summoning the young lady from Framingham, who came immediately.

Chapter 26

RICHARD LONGFELLOW STOOD for a moment on the snowy road, watching the others return to his home. Captain Montagu, he felt, would only be a hindrance in what he planned to do next. And he could see Charlotte had another idea of her own, though she only admitted she'd go and ask Hannah about her sciatica, while Lem saw his young lady.

Longfellow raised his scarf and began to walk into the brisk west wind, hoping to catch a ride. Before long he had his wish. Once over the bridge, he strode to the north on the road to Concord; this soon took him to the swinging sign of the Blue Boar.

The air inside was full of warmth and talk, but the latter ceased when Longfellow entered. He was not a regular here, and when he did come in, others might ask why. Yet he supposed word had circulated concerning the tenuous state of the village secret—now that he'd begun to look into other affairs connected with Boar Island. The tavern's patrons would ask themselves what he knew… much as he had wondered about them in weeks gone by. Good! Better to fish in troubled waters. Doubt might soften their resolve, eventually helping the truth to burst out like—well, like the thing he'd observed on John Dudley's stump of a neck.

Anticipated success put a smile on the selectman's face, which he imagined gave most of those watching additional discomfort. When the time was ripe, he would pounce. Until then he would wait like one of his cats, and watch for further developments.

Phineas Wise came toward him between the tables, carrying a jug of ale.

“Good day to you, Mr. Longfellow. Have you come to see how we do in the other half of the village this morning? After our little snow?”

“Good day, Mr. Wise. Half of the village is on my mind, I admit. Due to the weather… and a few other things I've been looking into.”

“Would you like something to warm you? I'm about to make flannel.”

“At your stove?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

They made their way past the fire where Flint and Tinder seemed to be reading their newspapers, though this Longfellow doubted. As he passed, new smoke rose up from their pair of long clay pipes, yet their eyes would not meet his.

“Gentlemen,” he said as he went by. In return, he received startled grunts, and a rattling of pages.

In a tiny space built onto the main room, Phineas had a cast-iron stove blazing. Onto its top he set a pan, taken from a board crammed with several others. Into the pan he poured the contents of the pitcher which was, in fact, a dark brown ale of strong fragrance.

“What do you know of this shilling business?” Longfellow asked. Wise paused to look up, his eyes steady as