Abigail turned over in her hands the plates and bowls, the Japan-ware tray and the little warming-lamp. All were clean. I’m missing something, she thought. Something I’ve been told . . .
“Had he a servant?”
“He must have, mustn’t he?” Apthorp regarded her in some surprise at the idea that a man able to rent a house for ten pounds a year would not have a valet.
“What sort of horse does he ride?” she asked, and again, Mr. Apthorp looked blank.
“I haven’t the least idea, m’am. He’s always come to my house afoot. I don’t even know if he keeps a horse.”
“By the appearance of the midden by the stables,” said Abigail, “someone has done so.”
Entry into the stable itself confirmed this, but not much more. Trampled straw heaped two of the stalls. Scattered oats—and a small quantity in the feedbox—had drawn the rodents from the fields around about, which had not been evident in the house, and the faint smell of horse-piss spoke of a fairly recent date of occupancy. By the same token, Abigail guessed that if horses had been here as recently as the fifth of March, they hadn’t been here much later.
“You say Mr. Elkins has an accommodation address,” said John, as they crossed to the house once more. “Is this how you generally communicate with him?” Through the gate and out across the fields in the direction of town, Abigail could see the wet-black roofs of the gaggle of taverns and houses that lay along Green Lane at the foot of the hill, but no trace of their earlier escort. Perhaps, like Hev Miller and Matt Brown, they had taken refuge at the Dressed Ship.
“Yes, sir. I write to him care of the taproom at the Man-o’-War, in Ship Street across from Clark’s Yard. A Mrs. Klinker owns the place, sir. A clean and respectable establishment, as such places go.” Apthorp sounded as if he feared they would judge him harshly by the place to which he sent his letters.
“Odd, isn’t it? To spend fifty shillings a quarter for an address and then receive one’s letters in a common tavern?”
Apthorp shook his head. “ ’ Tisn’t my business to say what’s odd about another man, Mr. Adams. He wants it that way and is willing to pay, so I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“When next you hear from Mr. Elkins,” said Coldstone, “please notify me—and Mr. Adams—at once, if you would, sir. I should very much like to speak with him. Is it your intention,” he added to Abigail, once they had parted company from Mr. Apthorp and were on their way back to Rowe’s Wharf in the deepening dusk, “to speak to Mr. Fenton again soon, Mrs. Adams?”
“I will write His Excellency, and Mr. Buttrick, this evening to ask if ’twould be convenient for me to do so tomorrow.”
“Do so, if you would, m’am. You may add Major Salisbury’s name to that request, if you have any concern that Governor Hutchinson might refuse you admittance to his house. You have never told me,” he added, as they left the bare back-slopes of Beacon Hill behind them for the muddy ice of Green Lane, “how you came to know of this place and of Sir Jonathan’s presence there on the day of his death. We shall need sworn witnesses, you know,” he went on, with a disapproving glance at John, “if we are to bring the matter before the Admiralty Court—or even the Massachusetts General Court.”
“Witnesses shall be forthcoming,” said John. “Once we know enough of our direction,” he added, as Coldstone opened his lips to make some observation about the handiness and reliability of Massachusetts witnesses, “to be sure that our witnesses will not find themselves under arrest.”
Coldstone looked as if he were going to speak again, then closed his mouth and paced on for a time looking straight before him. Abigail noticed as they passed Green Lane that their bodyguards were back. Two men coming up from the direction of the waterfront caught a glimpse of Muldoon’s crimson uniform and started to cross Treamount Street to them, and one of the men who’d been trailing them all afternoon loafed casually over and caught the two patriots by the arms. Coldstone gave no sign that he’d seen this defense, but Abigail thought his shoulders stiffened beneath their dark military cloak.
At length he muttered, “This is ridiculous.”
“I agree, sir,” John replied.
“I don’t speak of the fact that a King’s officer, legitimately pursuing the King’s duty, needs a corps assigned by the local incendiaries to enter this city without being assaulted—”
“I did not think that was what you meant, sir.” John glanced sidelong up at the officer at his side. “For myself, I consider it not ridiculous, but appalling, that a question of politics—of whether or not Englishmen living in Massachusetts should enjoy the same liberties as Englishmen living in London—has so preoccupied and distorted the minds of both sides that the business of justice cannot be pursued because neither side can or will trust the word of the other. With the result, as we have seen, that a criminal feels safe in murdering a servant of the King within a hundred feet of the Governor’s house.”
Coldstone moved his head a little at that, and something in the look of his eye made Abigail say, “If he was murdered in the alley. Did you smell anything in that house, Lieutenant? In the front hall?”
“I did,” he replied grimly. “And I have fought on enough battlefields and walked through enough hospital-tents to know what death smells like. Yet as I can think of no reason why a killer would carry a murdered man a quarter of a mile to dump his body on the Governor’s doorstep, when a quarter mile in the other direction would bring him to the ice-covered river where a body could lie undetected until April, I can only conclude that whoever died in that hall, it was not Sir Jonathan Cottrell.”
Lord bless you, m’am, don’t stand there lookin’ at me like I’m going to stick my spoon in the wall this second.” Mr. Fenton blinked sleepily at Abigail as she stood in the doorway. When she came close, she saw that even in the washed-out gray daylight that came through the attic window, the man’s pupils were contracted to the size of pinheads; the bottle that stood on the table beside his cot must contain an opiate of some kind. “Your good Doctor Warren didn’t tell me anythin’ I didn’t suspect already. At least he give me somethin’ for the pain, God bless him.”
Abigail brought up the broken chair, and John—as Thaxter had done two days before—sat tailor-fashion on the floor with his notebook in his hand. “Are you in much pain?” she asked gently, and Fenton moved his head, as if in a denial that the sweat on his face and his stertorous breathing belied.
“Not to speak of.”
Even had Mr. Buttrick not warned her, when he led her and John through the servants’ hall and up the backstairs, that Dr. Warren had pronounced the man beyond help, Abigail thought she would have known at the sight of him that he was dying. Under a sheen of sweat, his face was swollen almost unrecognizably from the man she’d spoken to only Monday evening, and in the daylight the progress of the jaundice had turned his flesh nearly orange. His voice was barely a whisper. When she took his hand—puffy with dropsy, though the wrist above it was wasted from the starvation of long illness—it felt chill and limp, like a dead man’s hand already.
“Mr. Buttrick said you had a thing or two you wanted yet to ask,” Fenton prompted her after a moment. “Don’t fret after me, m’am—happens to everyone, I’ve heard tell. His Excellency sent his pastor in, for me to make my peace—” He managed a crooked grin in spite of the pain. “Leastwise I know now for certain there’s no danger of meetin’ His Nibs when I gets to the other side. I know which way he went. How’s things look for your friend?”