How long, before someone came?
Abigail put her head cautiously out the kitchen door. She’d heard Hap Flowers—the younger of Nehemiah Tillet’s apprentices—in the yard a few minutes ago, taking advantage of Mrs. Tillet’s absence to use the privy in peace. The linendraper’s wife would watch and wait for the boys—and for the sullen little scullery girl—suspecting them of loitering to avoid work. Any other day at this hour, Abigail knew the cook herself would be in the kitchen starting the day’s work at this time, but with any luck Queenie, too, would be taking advantage of her mistress’s absence, and no one would be near the wide kitchen windows that looked onto the yard.
There was a shed across the yard, where the prentice-boys left packing crates to be broken up for kindling, sometimes for weeks. Abigail darted out, found a medium-sized one that neatly covered the line of blood across the back step, ducked back inside. With luck the boys—and Queenie, too—would think Rebecca herself had set it there, for purposes of her own.
In the parlor, a basket held spare slates and chalk, for such of Rebecca’s little pupils as forgot to bring theirs from home. On one of the slates Abigail chalked, NO SCHOOL TODAY, and set it on top of the crate.
What else?
She kicked her feet back into her pattens, which she’d stepped out of—the movement automatic, without thinking—in the parlor, to climb the stairs. Slipped outside, closed the door, threaded the latchstring through its hole. She realized all this time she’d still been wearing her heavy green outdoor cloak, barely aware of it, so cold was the little house. The iron lifts of the pattens clanked on the yard’s bricks as she hurried toward the gate, praying the Tillets had not left Medford until that morning. She recalled Rebecca saying, “Thursday,” but didn’t know whether that meant morning or evening: Medford lay a solid day’s journey to the northwest for a wagon such as Tillet owned. Queenie the cook might prefer “resting her bones” and drinking her master’s tea to making the slightest inquiry about her master’s tenant, but upon her return Mrs. Tillet would be on Rebecca’s doorstep before she’d changed out of her travel dress, to collect the sewing that she considered gratis, as a part of Rebecca’s rent of the little house. If the wedding had been Tuesday—
“Morning, Mrs. Adams!”
Queenie’s voice from the back door of the Tillet kitchen made Abigail startle like a deer. She turned, smiled, waved at the squat, pock-faced little woman in the doorway, and kept moving. She hoped Queenie didn’t see her stoop in the gate and gather up her market basket as she passed through to the alley.
She tried not to run.
It was full daylight now, Thursday, the twenty-fourth of November, 1773. Gulls circled, crying, between the steeples and the gray of the overcast sky. The breeze came in from the harbor laden with salt and wildness. When she glanced to her right down those short streets that led to the waterfront Abigail could see the masts of vessels rocking at anchor, the surge and orderly confusion of stevedores and carters on the wharves. Coastal sloops and fishing-smacks at Burrell’s Wharf and Clark’s Wharf, unloading tobacco from the Virginia colony and the night’s catch from the harbor. Ahead of her she could see tall vessels from England tied up at Hancock’s Wharf, with all those things the mother country manufactured and the colonies were forbidden to produce.
Glass for windowpanes, porcelain dishes. Nails, scissors, bridle-bits, axheads, knives. Fabric—if one did not want to walk around in drab homespun or spend one’s days and nights at a parlor loom—and the thread and needles to sew it with; ribbons, corset-strings, hats. Sugar that had to be imported from England even though it was manufactured on this side of the Atlantic, in Barbados and Jamaica. Salt for preserving meat; mustard and pepper. Stays and buttons and shoe buckles, coffee and tea.
The colony must support the mother country, the Tories said: timber and wheat, potash and salt fish. Unnatural mother, who forbids her children to outgrow their leading-strings! She could almost hear Rebecca saying it, on one of dozens of nights during the six months she’d lived with her and John after leaving Charles Malvern, sitting with them at the kitchen table at the white house on Brattle Street, while John “cooked up” his letters, articles, protests under a dozen different names. What would you or any of your neighbors say of Abigail, sir, if she tried to keep Nabby or Johnny from learning to walk, to run, to one day take their place in the world of grown women and men? And John had grinned at her and dipped his pen in the standish (that had been imported from England—the ink, too!) and had said, That’s good . . . I’ll use that.
Her mind chased the thought back. Rebecca, still with Charles then, had been in that same kitchen with her in March of ’70, when shots had rung out in the snowy twilight. It was Rebecca who’d stayed with the children—Johnny had been three at the time, Nabby almost five—when Abigail, great with another child, had gone to the end of Brattle Street, and had seen the dead of what had come to be called the “Boston Massacre,” and the dark gouts of blood on the trampled snow.
Her second daughter—her poor, fragile Suky—had died, barely a year old, only the month before the Massacre. It was Rebecca who had comforted her, talked with her so many nights in that kitchen, when John was away at the distant courts or meeting with the Sons of Liberty—to Rebecca she had been able to say what she would not say to John for fear of opening the wounds of his own raw grief. When Charley was born at the end of that May after the Massacre, Rebecca had been there to care for the other two, and had stayed on until nearly October, before finding rooms of her own in the maze of crowded boardinghouses and tenements in the North End.
And now she had fled—Where? As she passed North Square Abigail almost turned her steps to Revere’s house, knowing it was there that Rebecca would go, but if Rebecca for some reason had not, then Revere would be at his shop. In any case—
The shop windows were unshuttered. Smoke issued from the chimney, white and fluffy, a new-lit fire. For one instant, as she opened the shop door, Abigail’s heart leaped, as she recognized wily cousin Sam, and Dr. Warren, standing by the counter. But as she crossed the threshold she heard Sam saying, “Not a man in ten cares about their damned tea monopoly. Not one in fifty cares that the King can declare a monopoly, and then give his friends the only rights in the colony to sell the stuff at whatever the market will—Abigail, my dear!” He had a beautiful voice, deep and convincing, and a way of speaking that could ignite the air even if all he was doing was gleefully relating the latest fight between the household cats. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Has John returned from Salem?” asked Dr. Warren. “He said he’d—”
“There’s a dead woman on the floor of Rebecca Malvern’s kitchen,” said Abigail quietly. “Her throat was cut. Rebecca is gone, and I found this”—she held out the list—“near the body.”
Sam’s pink face turned the color of bad cream.
Revere said, “I’ll get my hat.”
Dr. Warren said, “Good God!” and dropped to his knees beside the body.
“I left her as I found her,” explained Abigail, as the young physician gently lifted back the jumble of petticoats, to reveal the extent of the slashing. Abigail had to turn her eyes away.
Sam called over his shoulder, “Who is she?” on his way into the parlor. Abigail heard him tapping and pushing at the paneling. Though she knew that time was short—anyone could come upon them and call the Watch with who knew what information still lying loose in corners—still she felt her ears get hot with anger, that he did not even pause in his stride.