he considered.
“All that I need to know. Pass me four eggs from that basket behind you.” Longfellow obliged. He watched the lean and rawboned fellow crack the eggs into a bowl, then beat in several spoons of sugar.
“You've taken them and said nothing?”
“As often as the next man. I'm not constable this year, as I was the last. So I felt no need to look further.”
“They didn't tell you?”
“They know that I know, and I leave it at that. I don't think,” Wise continued as he began to grate a furrowed nutmeg, “it's as well planned as you might suppose. Things of a hidden nature expand, if there's no one to stop them.” He took up a smaller gray jug, and poured a cup of dark rum into his spicy mixture.
“Just how many are in on this, would you say?”
“Two dozen? Perhaps more. Few with much to lose, I'd say.”
“And who, Phineas, is behind it? Do you know that?”
“I've overheard enough to guess. But I suggest you go out yourself, and hear what you can.”
Seeing the ale on the stove steaming, the landlord poured a little into the bowl, stirring quickly with a large spoon to keep the eggs from curdling.
“I doubt I'd learn the time of day talking with your customers this morning, Phineas. As you already suspect.”
Wise smiled at that, for it was true. He poured the rest of the ale into the bowl and blended it thoroughly.
“From what I can tell,” said Longfellow, “the shillings are coming from Boar Island. And John Dudley, constable or not, has something to do with it. Where is he, by the way? Still upstairs, sleeping amidst his fumes?”
“Gone. Got up early—ate some cold pork and gravy from that pot there, while I was up a ladder pulling down snow drifted over the door. When I came back in, he was finishing a bottle two gentlemen abandoned last evening, telling me I could hardly charge him for what another had left behind!”
“And?”
“I could, and did. He gave me this for the night, and a small debt built up over the past week.” Reaching onto the shelf above the stove, Wise took down a shilling and handed it over. Longfellow brought it close to his eye.
“Like those given to Jonathan, and Nathan Browne.”
“I should think so.” Wise poured the rest of the pan's mixture into the bowl, then poured the concoction back into the hot pan. A moment later it had returned to the bowl. This process was continued until the liquid became smooth and glossy.
“There,” said the landlord, when he was satisfied. “A yard of flannel, as they say, to warm the stomach and the heart.”
Longfellow picked up a glass from a shelf, wiped it with no fear of offending his reasonable host, and allowed it to be filled. The drink was as smooth as silk, and pleasant on the tongue.
“I just spoke with another of your regular clients,” he told Phineas a moment later. “Up at the inn.”
“Who was that?”
“Jack Pennywort.”
“Just as well,” said the landlord. “He'll hear less there to cause damage, should he repeat it.”
“I take it, then, you hope this secret won't come out?”
“There's little hope of that. How it comes out concerns me. When it does, will they all begin to nip at one another like dogs, trying to stay on top? Will this business with Godwin and Old Cat Knowles enter into it, and bring us even worse? I only know I wouldn't want to be the man who informs on all the rest.”
“That's what someone else recently told me.”
“Well, she's right. My business is a rough one. Some farmers come in here feeling barely Christian. They may leave in worse shape. I've even heard it said the young man's death may have been the best thing for us all.”
“A cold thought.”
“It's been a cold year for many, as you know. Even before the snows.”
Longfellow recalled his earlier sympathy for his neighbors’ struggles, increasing with each new season.
“What do you know of Boar Island, Phineas?”
“I know it's a rock set in a marsh. Now it appears to be something worse. A good place to stay away from, I should think.”
“It might be, at that,” said Longfellow. Despite another sip of flannel and the warmth from the stove, he felt a chill as he contemplated a visit of his own.
AFTER HE'D HELPED Charlotte to a fireside chair in Hannah Sloan's kitchen, Lem Wainwright set down a basket that contained fresh milk and cream, and a packet of