The Ninth Daughter

“And the whole thing is simply shredding my nerves, Mrs. Adams! From the moment Mr. Revere shouted to me to come—”

So that’s how they did it—

“There has not been a moment, when I have been free of migraine, or palpitations of the heart, or the sweats . . . Feel my forehead, if you don’t believe me, Mrs. Adams! Last night I could not get a wink of sleep, not one single wink, and what it’s done to my digestion I daren’t think! My husband was the same way, all nerves, poor soul . . . Of course I was stronger then—”

“You have always inspired me with your strength, Mrs. Queensboro,” affirmed Abigail desperately, knowing Mrs. Tillet was not a woman to linger in the marketplace.

“No more.” Queenie shook her head, and raised a sigh so piteous and profound that—as Shakespeare had said—it seemed to shatter all her considerable bulk. “No more. Not since his death, taken as he was in the flower of his prime . . . I have never been the same, you know . . .”

“What is it that she’s done?” asked Abigail, throwing caution to the winds. “Surely she isn’t making you, on top of all else that you have to do to run this household, sew those wretched shirts that she charges the customers seven shillings for?”

And she cast a meaningful eye toward the basket.

“Alas, if it were only that!” Queenie pressed a hand to her eyes. “Even with my migraines, that I get from doing close work—and even the smallest effort at it will set me off for days—”

Heavy footfalls shook the parlor floorboards. Had she not known the yard gate was locked, Abigail would have made a smiling excuse and taken her leave at that point, but she knew she was cornered. She turned toward the parlor door with an expression of pleasure. “Why, Mrs. Tillet—”

“Mrs. Adams.” The linendraper’s wife filled the doorway like the Minotaur emerging from its cave. “To what do we owe this visit?”

“I’m terribly sorry to intrude, m’am, but I was in the neighborhood and Mr. Adams had asked me, about a volume of Tacitus he had lent to Mrs. Malvern some weeks ago. It was not among the things you so kindly sent; I had wondered if by chance it had been mistakenly set aside?”

“If you’re saying we might have stolen it, the answer is no,” snapped the big woman, broad face flushed with anger. She slapped down her market basket on the sideboard. “And what my cook would know about the matter one way or the other I cannot for the life of me think.”

“Mrs. Tillet,” said Abigail, getting up, aggrieved and puzzled. “I’m most dreadfully sorry if I’ve given you reason to think—”

“Well, I’m sorry, too, m’am,” returned Mrs. Tillet coldly. She was resolutely not looking at either the tray with the bread and water, nor the basket of sewing. “I’m sorry that you have nothing better to do with your time—and with growing children in your home!—then to go about the town talking to people’s servants and keeping them from their honest work. Now, good day to you.”

Her face stinging with rising blood as if the other woman had slapped her, Abigail was halfway back to the market square when she remembered the detail that had caught her eye as she’d come out of the shop’s back door, crossed to the kitchen—a difference in detail that had snagged her attention without transmitting, at the time, any meaning.

On dozens of mornings over the past year she’d crossed from Rebecca’s door to the kitchen door, to ask one thing or another of Queenie, and had noted the small furnishings of the yard repeatedly: hayfork for the cowshed, woodpile in its shelter, line of chamber pots outside the kitchen door, emptied but waiting to be scoured. (More laziness of Queenie’s—Rebecca had always scoured hers with ashes, soap, and boiling water even before breakfast, one of the first things Abigail had taught her when it had become clear that Rebecca was determined to live on her own. Abigail’s mother always said—a saying which Abigail had passed along—Worst goes first.) Rebecca’s chamber pot had been a hand-me-down, like everything else in her house: yellowware with a white and blue stripe around its middle.

This morning it had been sitting in the line of the Tillet household china on the step.

Abigail slowed her steps, calling the picture back to mind. Of course, given Mrs. Tillet’s penny-pinching ways, it was natural that she’d appropriate her vanished tenant’s thunder mug as well as her plates and forks . . . But why? None of the Tillet china had been missing. Half closing her eyes, Abigail was sure of it, because the four Tillet vessels didn’t match one another, either. The Tillets’ blue-and-white chinaware, and three rather plain pottery vessels in different colors for Queenie, the prentice-boys who slept in the shop, and whatever orphan Mrs. Tillet was half starving and working to death that year.

So who was using the other chamber pot?

Twenty-five

“Mr. Butler.” Abigail paused in the door of the cooper’s shop. Mrs. Tillet’s words still smarted in her mind, accompanied by other remarks made by other friends, about people who went around gossiping with servants. A little hesitantly, she said, “Might I beg a few words with Shim?”

The cooper grinned at her. “Nar, I think Shim’s too set on cuttin’ staves to spare a second to rest,” and the boy—already hopping gratefully down from the workbench where he had been performing this tedious and finicking task—grinned back and threw his master a salute. Mr. Cooper opened the door to the shop’s tiny rear parlor for them and went back to fitting hoops to a half-assembled barrel.

At least everyone doesn’t think it’s a sin to want to talk to someone other than the head of the family.

“Shim,” said Abigail softly, setting down her market basket, “do you know any of the prentice-boys along Fish Street on the North End?”

“Yes, m’am.” Small and wiry for his eleven years, Shimrath Walton had a quick mind and a friendly nature, even—up until recently—with the redcoats. Jed Paley—apprenticed to a house-carpenter a little farther up the street, and nearly seventeen—was acknowledged leader of the boys on Queen Street, but Shim combined a tendency to rove everywhere in town with an almost compulsive desire to talk to anybody about anything. He went on, “Zib Fife and Rooster Tamble, we’re going to all go to the meeting after dinner at Old South, about the British injustices and the King trying to make us all slaves. Mr. Butler says we can,” he added quickly, with a glance through the door into the shop.

“Excellent,” approved Abigail. “Do you happen to know the prentices of Tillet the linendraper?”

“Where the murder took place, m’am?” Something altered in the boy’s expression: more than just the eagerness of one who has had a sensation. Almost wariness. A look of putting things together, that he has heard or overheard.

So it isn’t my imagination.

“Yes,” said Abigail quietly. “Listen to me, Shim, this is important—and it’s doubly important that neither Mr. Tillet, nor his prentices, know that you’re asking questions. But I need an agent—a spy.”

Shim nodded, his soul aglow in his eyes.

“I don’t think it has anything to do with the murder,” she said. “Not directly, anyway. But I think there’s something funny going on in that house, and I need to know what it is. Can you find out for me?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Can you find out without anyone else knowing that you’re asking? That’s important.”

“Yes, m’am.” The boy nodded again. “If they get word of someone asking, they’ll move what they’re doing away from there, won’t they? Like if they’re meeting with Tory agents, or sending out signals to the British . . . And then you won’t know where to start looking again. Is that it?”

“Something like that,” said Abigail. “But it isn’t Tory agents or signals to the British. And you mustn’t say that, or anything else, to anyone. If I’m wrong, you know how terribly gossip can hurt someone, even if the gossip isn’t true.”

The boy’s face changed again, anger this time, and hurt. “I know that, m’am,” he said quietly. “Ma had a