The Ninth Daughter

from the act of some poor woman who is only doing it to buy herself bread? “As some—whom I shall not name—regard Mrs. Malvern.”

He thought about that for some time before saying, “You are quite right, m’am.”

“And no politics in sight.”

Something changed in his eyes, and she knew as if she read it on a piece of paper, that in his mind was whatever it was that made him—and Colonel Leslie—so certain John had a hand in the killing. Whatever it was that he would not tell her.

As she would not—could not—speak Abednego Sellars’s name to him.

A pretty black maid, slender as a dark lily, got down from the coachman’s box to collect the odds and ends left in the coach: a book, a scarf, vinaigrette, an overfed lapdog who whined and licked her hands. As if she heard Coldstone’s speculations the maid turned quickly, trying to get a look at the loitering watcher. But the young idler slipped away out of sight. Too many soldiers about? Abigail wondered. Or had he simply been told to report to some master-thief, that the family had indeed departed for Castle Island, and the house could be robbed at leisure?

“You said to me the other day that killers such as this one—of whom I presume you have heard more in London—invariably continue with their killings,” she said. “Why would he have waited fourteen months, between the second murder and the third? You’re certain there have been none between?”

“After Mrs. Fishwire’s murder,” said Coldstone quietly, “I have been watching.”

“Fourteen months is the length of a sea voyage, and a stay in some other land.”

“I had thought that. I will send to the city magistrates of New York and Philadelphia, to ask if there have been similar crimes.”

Abigail hesitated, then said carefully, “There is a man—a friend”—not a completely accurate statement, but it was the best she could manage on the spur of the moment—“who got into a quarrel with Mrs. Fishwire, more than once, I understand. He is . . . a connection of the family of Mr. Pentyre’s mother, who were involved in a dispute over property. I cannot give you his name—”

Coldstone made an impatient gesture.

“—because he has been so unwise as to speak out against the King’s Governor in the past . . . not an uncommon topic of conversation, in this colony. Because of the situation of his poor wife”—Would he care for this argument? She didn’t think so—“I fear lest he be harassed, merely on suspicion of this crime. Have you had the opportunity to ask Mr. Pentyre if he is willing to speak with me, so that I may ask him of this?”

“Of this?” He raised one eyebrow. “Or to further your personal theory that he might be the murderer himself?”

“Lieutenant!” Mr. Fluckner strode back up the wooden steps to street level again, swinging his silver-headed cane. “Lieutenant, I have twice indicated to you that we are ready to depart! Need I remind you—”

“Forgive me.” Lieutenant Coldstone turned quickly toward the red-faced merchant. “I came ashore to accomplish two duties, and am guilty of neglecting the one in pursuit of the other.”

Fluckner glanced at Abigail, his thick lips wry, as if gauging both her politics and her morals from the cost of her plain green wool cloak, the muslin cap visible beneath her hood. He said, “M’am,” but didn’t sound enthusiastic about it, and touched the brim of his hat.

“Mr. Fluckner, Mrs. Adams,” Coldstone introduced them, as the daughter came up, followed by the mother’s querulous voice.

“They’re not going to come rushing out of the town to shoot us on sight, you know, Papa,” the girl protested, as she reached her father’s side. “All they’re asking for is their rights as citizens.” She stared with fiery fifteen- year-old defiance at Coldstone, and Fluckner said sharply, “Hush, girl. The only rights they’re interested in is the right to take property from those who’ve worked for it. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Adams,” he added, turning back to Abigail. “We’ll miss the tide if we linger.” By the smoldering suspicion in his eyes—presumably at the name of Adams—he was clearly considering the possibility that she was delaying their departure until the protest meeting was finished and a concerted attack could be arranged.

“I fear Mr. Fluckner is quite correct.” Coldstone turned back to her. “If you can cross tomorrow at this time,” he said, “I can arrange an introduction. Would that satisfy you?”

“Thank you. I am very sensible of your assistance.”

“Enough to share with me the results of the interview?”

She smiled. “Even that.”

He bowed over her hand. “Until tomorrow then, m’am. Curtis—” He signaled one of the soldiers on the wharf. “Please escort Mrs. Adams back to Queen Street—”

“Good heavens, do you want the poor man killed?” Abigail stepped back. “This is Massachusetts, Lieutenant, not London. Women are quite safe to go about by themselves.”

“Not all of them,” returned Coldstone quietly. “But have it as you will, Mrs. Adams.”

He followed the merchant and his daughter down the steps to the wharf, where the last of the baggage had been loaded onto the launch. Mrs. Fluckner had gone aboard, too, and stood, cradling her lapdog, unwilling—for whatever reason—to set foot once more in the place that had become so suddenly dangerous for her and hers. Abigail stood for a time on the roadway, looking down at the gray green water lapping around the piers and the vessel’s black-wet sides, the bloody splashes of the soldiers’ uniforms, the brilliant hues of Miss Fluckner’s skirt where the wind took her cloak aside. Last of all the black maid was handed into the boat, and for a moment stopped and turned back.

And what does she think of it, who has not Scipio’s position in the household, nor Surry’s unshakeable trust in Sam’s ability to keep his family safe? Does she wonder what will become of her, should the family suffer financial reverses in the course of this unrest over the tea? In such circumstances, Abigail was well aware, frequently the first luxuries to be sold off were the chattel servants.

And yet for the briefest moment, Abigail had the feeling that the young woman was not looking at Boston, but at her.

Mr. Fluckner’s voice snapped, an angry and audible shout, “Philomela, get down here! Your mistress is calling!”

The slave turned away, and disappeared among the confusion of men as they made sail. Abigail tightened her scarves about her throat, and made her way back along the Battery March toward the town.

Nineteen

“You are crossing to Castle Island?” John set the basin of hot water on the corner of the table, brows diving down over his blunt nose the way they did in court when opposing counsel tried to slip some fact by him in a millrace of rhetoric. Abigail gathered up the last of the forks.

“Lieutenant Coldstone has offered to arrange an interview between myself and Richard Pentyre. I could ask you to escort me, but since I had rather our children did not grow up as proscribed orphans in the wake of your hanging, I think it would be better for all if Thaxter came with me instead.”

“And what will you ask Mr. Pentyre when you see him?” inquired John sarcastically. “If he murdered his wife?”

“Something of the kind.” Instead of coming back directly from the Battery that morning, Abigail had taken a long detour to the North End again, and had stood for some time on Prince’s Street, studying the bland brick frontage of Pentyre’s handsome house. Of the original dwelling, only the lintel over the door remained unchanged: ANTONINUS SELLARS—1697. The stylish slate roof with its numerous tiny dormers towered above the older gables of its neighbors, but of the half-dozen chimneys, only one—probably that of the kitchen—vented a drift of smoke.

Abigail wondered if Lisette Droux still remained in residence, or whether she had gone on, to feather her nest elsewhere. Now you ask me to speculate on the contents of a man’s heart . . .