A Marked Man

“Governor Hutchinson’s stable boys, when they opened the mews gates. They thought he might have been a late-departing guest from the previous night, ran to him and turned him over, and recognized him at once. The coachman, Mr. Sellon, ordered him brought into the coach-house, hoping against hope that he might be revived with brandy by the tack-room fire. He had, of course, been long dead, though owing to the extreme cold he was not stiff. Sellon sent for Governor Hutchinson, who immediately sent for us.”

“And you just as immediately arrested Mr. Knox?” concluded Abigail.

“When a man is killed,” replied Coldstone primly, “it is difficult to keep one’s mind from leaping back to the phrase, I will kill you like a dog. The stablemen all informed me of Mr. Knox’s threat the moment I arrived, and seemed to take Knox’s guilt as a given, particularly as Miss Fluckner had been at the ball the previous night, and word had gone around that the engagement was to have been announced.”

Abigail said, “Hmmm,” and Lieutenant Coldstone poured her out another cup of coffee. In the hall outside the doorway, the voices of the cubbyhole’s two other occupants, Stevenson and Barclay, could be heard, protesting Sergeant Muldoon’s dogged insistence that himself was after talking with a couple of mainland folks over Sir Jonathan’s murder—

“Rot, Sergeant, I’ll bet he’s got a woman in there.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Bet you he’s snabbled all the tea and the sugar, too—”

Thaxter asked, “When did the last guests leave?”

“Shortly after two. The alley is a narrow one, but Rawson’s Lane is barely wider, unpaved, and in nasty condition this time of year. When sent for, the carriages went around by School Street to the mansion’s front door, so the body could have been lying where it was found as early as nine or ten, when the latest arrivals came in. At that time the lanterns around the gate were taken in and the alley would have thenceforth been quite dark.”

“And I take it the tavern frequented by the footmen and grooms is in School Street rather than Rawson’s Lane?”

The corner of Coldstone’s mouth twitched again at her deduction that such a thing existed, and he replied, “The Spancel, yes. I have made arrangements to question the coachmen and footmen of all the guests over the next few days, but I assume that had any encountered Sir Jonathan’s body that night they would have notified Mr. Sellon, if no one else. Sir Jonathan was clothed as he had been that morning at the wharves, and his watch, his silver penknife, and English coin to the value of nearly ten pounds were found on his person. The only things missing were his gold signet ring and the memorandum-book that he usually carried . . . a book that contained his findings here in Boston regarding smuggling and the Sons of Liberty, and whatever notes he may have taken while in Maine.”

Abigail glanced up again at that, and the dark gaze that met hers was impassive, watching her take in the implications of this fact. But after turning the whole of what she had heard over in her mind, she said, “It began to get light at five. Is seven hours sufficient for a man’s body to turn quite cold? When my Grandpa Quincy died, I recall he was laid down on the cooling-bench for quite twenty-four hours. And at slaughtering-time on the farm, the pigs and calves are hung up for many hours before the heat goes out of the meat.”

Thaxter—a city boy—looked a trifle disconcerted at these matter-of-fact speculations on the logistics of mortality, but Coldstone nodded. “A small man like Sir Jonathan would cool more swiftly, I think, particularly on such a night. He cannot have encountered his killer much sooner than nine, or even in darkness the commotion of the beating would surely have been glimpsed at the far end of the lane by the latecomers.”

“Could he have been killed elsewhere?” suggested Thaxter hesitantly.

“The thought occurred to me,” said Coldstone. “But why? Why take the trouble to bring a beaten corpse, obviously murdered, to a place where it will be discovered, when with very little trouble it can be disposed of in the river or the harbor? In fact it did cross my mind that he might have been moved, because I saw no sign of postmortem lividity in the face or chest, but quite frankly, as cold as it was, I’m not sure there would have been any.”

Abigail turned her coffee-cup round in its saucer, seeing in her mind the towering, bulky shape of Thomas Fluckner, as she had seen him here and there about the streets of Boston during the few years that she and John had lived in the town. A bosom-bow of the Governor’s and the recipient of any number of favors from the Crown; a King’s Commissioner himself and a member of that elect, golden circle of merchants and Great Proprietors, who twenty years ago had induced the then-royal governor to give them all those acres of land in Maine and build forts against the Indians on it at public expense, in trade for a share in the profits. It was expected that any of Fluckner’s daughters would marry a Hutchinson or an Oliver, a Bowdoin or an Apthorp, and keep the lands that would be theirs within that privileged group.

Nobody would welcome a bookseller who read too many of his own books and printed up broadsheets decrying Crown monopolies in his basement.

“And nothing of where Sir Jonathan went after he rented this horse of Mr. Howell’s? If he rented a mount to ride to the ferry, which lies in that direction, he must surely have returned by sunset, when the town gates close, and after that he must have been in town somewhere, between sunset—say, six o’clock—and ten, which I think must be the latest he could have died. Where could he have ridden, if he took the Charles Town Ferry, in order to be back before the ferry ceased to operate?”

She glanced at Thaxter, who had relatives in Lynn. Her own knowledge of the territory north of Boston ended five or six feet on either side of the Salem Road.

The young man frowned doubtfully. “At this season, he might reach Cambridge.” He didn’t sound as if he thought it a likely possibility. “Horse and man would tire very quickly in cold like Saturday’s. Of course, the countryside is thickly settled up, you know. He may just have gone visiting—er—Well, he could have had a sweetheart in any of a hundred farms . . .”

Coldstone moved his head a little, and for a moment, Abigail had the impression that he was about to crack his self-imposed calm and make some remark about the victim.

“Has he been in these parts before?” she asked. “Miss Fluckner indicated that he came down from Halifax late in December, but is this the first time he’s been in the colony? How would he have known how long to give himself, or where to go, if he took the ferry to the mainland Saturday?”

“Before Halifax, Sir Jonathan spent two years in Barbados,” replied Coldstone, in tones chillingly correct. “Prior to that he was about five years in Spain, upon the King’s business. Yet had he thought it worth his while, he would have learnt the ways of the countryside hereabouts quickly enough. And so might others have learnt where he was likely to go, so that they could close up their shops in good time and wait close to the ferry for his return.”

Abigail set down her coffee-cup with a clink. “To be sure, what does a man need to do to witness that he sought his bed at an honest hour because he felt poorly?”

“Cough now and then.” Coldstone folded his long-fingered hands upon his knee. “Which the guards assure me Mr. Knox has not once done in the thirty-some hours he has been in his cell.”

“I’m pleased to hear he’s feeling so much better,” responded Abigail promptly. Drat the man . . . “So to the regiment of problematical Mainers whose wives and sweethearts Sir Jonathan has spent the past ten days debauching, we might add any farmer or villager between here and Lynn, wives and sweethearts ditto—without coming anywhere near Sir Jonathan’s missing memorandum-book or Harry Knox’s unfortunate decision to get an unobserved night’s sleep.” She stepped down from the tall stool on which she’d sat and readjusted her scarves—the only outer garments of full-out protection against the weather that she’d been even slightly tempted to loosen the entire time she had been in the fort. “If you would be so good as to tell me, Lieutenant Coldstone, what it is that I and my husband and Harry’s friends need to discover in order to convince Colonel Leslie of Harry’s innocence, I would very much appreciate it. Because as it is, we’re put in the position of proving a negative, difficult even without the Colonel’s hopes that Mr. Knox may accuse others of sedition—in which he is not involved—in an effort to save his own skin, or Mr. Fluckner’s objections to seeing his daughter marry a man who is of no social use to him.”

Coldstone, who had risen when she did, stood before her for a moment without replying, without giving the slightest indication that he heard his two office-mates arguing with and harassing Sergeant Muldoon in the corridor, or the sharp clatter of weapons-drill in the parade-ground. Abigail wondered whether Harry could hear these camp-noises in his cell, and how long it would take him to read The Persian Wars, and