Knowing that in all probability she would be immured within her own house for the rest of the day, making dinner and performing the belated tasks of housewifery, after parting from Surry by the town dock Abigail made her way to Hanover Street. She found the shutters up at Orion Hazlitt's shop, but, hearing voices down the narrow pa.s.sway to the yard, went back and found him endeavoring to explain to his mother why he was going out, yet again.

She was weeping pitifully, her arms around him like a lover. "But why, son? You're always leaving me alone now. You didn't used to. How have I angered you?"

"Mother, I'm not angry. I could never be angry with you. I'll be back this afternoon." He tightened his arm around her, bent his head, to kiss her full on the lips. "I would never abandon my best beloved."

She laid her head on his chest. "But you have," she whispered. "You have left me, over and over. Please Please tell me, how I can win back your love." tell me, how I can win back your love."

"Mother-" he said desperately.

"What if it should rain?" she begged, in a small voice like a child's. "What if the rain should pour down, and the waters rise, and the house begin to float away? All the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered; fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered . . . and all that was in the dry land died. All the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered; fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered . . . and all that was in the dry land died."

"I won't let that happen." Over her starched lace cap his eyes met Abigail's, and there was a haunted flicker in them-wondering if I saw that kiss?-as if begging her to understand. He looked as if he had neither eaten nor slept properly in many nights. "I didn't leave you alone the other night, did I? When it started raining, and you were so frightened, I came back."

"You did," she whispered. "You held my hand. All flesh died, that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth All flesh died, that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth . . ." And she clasped his fingers now, and kissed them with a pa.s.sion that made Abigail cringe. No wonder the poor man did not feel able to bring a wife into his house. "I could not live without you, now that we are outcasts, exiles, wanderers upon the face of the earth . . ." . . ." And she clasped his fingers now, and kissed them with a pa.s.sion that made Abigail cringe. No wonder the poor man did not feel able to bring a wife into his house. "I could not live without you, now that we are outcasts, exiles, wanderers upon the face of the earth . . ."

"Nor I without you, Mother. Truly, honestly. But I must leave now-"

"Of course, dearest. Just come inside for a moment and see how I've embroidered those new pillowcases for your bed, just the way you liked them-"

"You showed me already, Mother, and they're beautiful." A note of desperation crept into his voice. "And I'll see them again when I return. d.a.m.nation-"

A young woman emerged from the house, whom Abigail vaguely recognized as the "girl" indispensible to any household in the town, a lanky, broad-shouldered female with a long, rectangular jaw and dirty hair.

"Son!" pleaded Mrs. Hazlitt, suddenly frantic. "Don't-" She pulled against the grip of the young woman, clutched at her son's hands, then the lapels of his coat, as he tried to step away; she began to struggle and weep. "Why have you stopped loving me, son? Why won't you tell me what I've done to make you hate me? There is a generation that curseth their father, and doth not bless their mother! There is a generation whose teeth are as swords, and their jaw teeth as knives . . ." There is a generation that curseth their father, and doth not bless their mother! There is a generation whose teeth are as swords, and their jaw teeth as knives . . ."

The young man turned swiftly, and Abigail walked with him out through the pa.s.sway to the street. "She'll forget all this by the time I'm home, you know," he said quietly, seeing the trouble on Abigail's face. "I hate it: I hate having to do it. And she-she doesn't understand. She's never understood-" He shook his head, as if trying to shake away sacking wrapped around his eyes and brain. "Have you heard anything? Anything at all?"

Abigail debated for a moment about telling him that at least two other women had been murdered in the same fashion as Perdita Pentyre, then put the thought aside. "I know Rebecca hasn't fled to stay with her maid," she said. "Her husband-"

He had been wavering, caught between his fear for his mother, and the tug of the tolling bells. Now he grew still. "You've seen him?"

"He has been most helpful, Orion."

"If I had-" he began impulsively, then stopped himself, and stood for a moment, looking past her, his face wooden with anger and distress. "He's shown before he'll do anything to possess her, up to and including putting her under lock and key! Do you think you can trust him?" he asked at last.

"I think think so," she said slowly. so," she said slowly.

"Do you ever wish-?" He hesitated, then let his breath out in a rush. When she put her hand on his arm, Abigail was disconcerted to feel him trembling. "Let me know," he said, "if you learn anything. If you find anything. I know it's-" He shook his head again, and rubbed his eyes. "Her husband will always be her husband." He sounded like a man reminding himself. "And Mother will always be my mother. I know that. Yet I can be her friend."

Wish what? Abigail watched him stride away down the slope of Wine Lane toward Faneuil Hall. Wish that instead of sitting at home comforting his mother when the rain began Thursday night, he had been still at Rebecca Malvern's, when Perdita Pentyre's killer came knocking at the shutter? Asking in a voice she knew, to let him in? Abigail watched him stride away down the slope of Wine Lane toward Faneuil Hall. Wish that instead of sitting at home comforting his mother when the rain began Thursday night, he had been still at Rebecca Malvern's, when Perdita Pentyre's killer came knocking at the shutter? Asking in a voice she knew, to let him in?

Wish that he had stood at G.o.d's elbow, there at the beginning of Time, and asked that the woman he loved not be given in marriage to a bone-dry merchant with two half-grown children? That he could spend his days with a mother whose grip upon him was an embrace and not a stranglehold?

And in her mind she heard her father's gentle voice: But we But we were were there, my Nab, at the beginning of Time with G.o.d. And we saw, and a.s.sented to, every single act and event of the lives He drew up for us, seeing in them His wisdom, before we entered into the human condition of blindness day-to-day there, my Nab, at the beginning of Time with G.o.d. And we saw, and a.s.sented to, every single act and event of the lives He drew up for us, seeing in them His wisdom, before we entered into the human condition of blindness day-to-day.

The sound of the church bells followed her home.

At least one portion of her investigation proved easy, and G.o.d had pity on her-or perhaps on poor Pattie, condemned to glean behind her erratic reaping these days. John came home to dinner late, when the meeting was done, with the news that none of the consignees had yet resigned his position, and that the Governor was still refusing to let the Dartmouth Dartmouth leave port. "Some of the men are returned, from the villages," he said, ladling the thick stew of chicken out onto the plates held by Johnny to serve parents and siblings. "We're meeting again, at the Green Dragon, at eight tonight. I beg your pardon, Portia, for deserting you again this way . . ." leave port. "Some of the men are returned, from the villages," he said, ladling the thick stew of chicken out onto the plates held by Johnny to serve parents and siblings. "We're meeting again, at the Green Dragon, at eight tonight. I beg your pardon, Portia, for deserting you again this way . . ."

"Then unless you wish me to behave like Mrs. Hazlitt," she said, "and cling weeping to your coat, may I send to Bess, to pa.s.s the evening in her company?"

Bess-born and raised, like Sam, in Boston-brought her daughter Hannah with her, a lively girl of seventeen, with her father's broad shoulders and st.u.r.dy build and her father's quicksilver mind. Both had heard already all about the expedition with Surry into the North End, so there was little explanation necessary. All Abigail had to do was say, at the right point in the exclamations of horror and shock, "The curious thing was, someone spoke of Abednego Sellars as having bought herbs of this Mrs. Fishwire. Surely not Mr. Sellars the chandler? Why, he is a deacon!"

"Nab," said Bess, wisely shaking her head, "you're the smartest woman I know, and married to the most long-headed man of my acquaintance, yet it's plain you come out of a country parsonage. A whited sepulchre," she said, with an expression that added, There are plenty of those around There are plenty of those around.

Abigail leaned forward in the deep gold light of the work-candles, with an expression of rapt fascination, and had the whole of Abednego Sellars's business and personal life deposited neatly in her lap.

Abednego Sellars did indeed have a ladyfriend in the North End, though probably not the same ladyfriend he'd had eighteen months ago at the time he'd made an exhibition of himself for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the inhabitants of the Love Lane Yard. "He's a man full of juice," sighed Bess. "When Penny Rucker married him back in '52, my Ma said he'd make her weep, and it's sure he has. Even then he liked his dram, for all he'll get up at meetings of the Session and roar against drunkenness before the face of the Congregation. Goes up to the sailors' taverns in the North End, where he thinks n.o.body knows him, as if Sophy Blaylock's cousin doesn't run the Queen of Argyll and and gossip worse than any woman in the town. These days-" She shook her head again, and made a little noise, as if urging on a recalcitrant horse. gossip worse than any woman in the town. These days-" She shook her head again, and made a little noise, as if urging on a recalcitrant horse.

Pattie got up to put more hot water in the teapot. Bess had brought a quarter of a brick of good Dutch East India Company oolong, respectably smuggled and ambrosial after many months of coffee and sa.s.safras.

"He's always seemed so respectable," lamented Abigail encouragingly.

"There's a good many men in this town who seem seem respectable," chimed in Hannah. Like her mother, she didn't seem particularly put out by this fact. Abigail wondered if she guessed about her father and Surry. respectable," chimed in Hannah. Like her mother, she didn't seem particularly put out by this fact. Abigail wondered if she guessed about her father and Surry.

The picture emerged of a man of l.u.s.ty appet.i.tes, of quick temper, of sharp ac.u.men where money and business were concerned; a man disinclined to keep rules where they interfered with what he considered his rights as a man, whether those rules were laid down by the Crown or the Congregation. He had many cronies, and made friends easily; was on good terms with one of his daughters, but the other two tended to be bitter over his way of life. His one son had gone to sea, and had been taken from his uncle's ship off Barbados, and pressed into the British Navy. Steps had been taken to get him out, but he had died before he could return home.

Abigail asked, "When was this?" no longer wondering at the man's dedication to the cause of rights for the colonists.

"Three years ago?" Bess paused in her sewing-baskets of sheets, shirts, the children's clothing lay on the big kitchen table between them, the eternal work of a household. Abigail didn't wonder at it, that Mrs. Tillet had pressed poor Rebecca into servitude to keep up with extra st.i.tching for money. "Sixty-nine, maybe? I remember he vowed then that he'd mend his way of life-that was the same year there was trouble with the elders of the Congregation. But it takes great strength, to alter the way a man lives. The hunger for the old ways grew on him, I guess."

"If he'd left Boston, he might have stood a better chance of mending his ways," remarked Hannah, bringing two of the work-candles close, so that she could thread up a needle by their light. "Here, if a man wants to make a change, he has to almost abandon all his friends. If he was out in Ess.e.x County, it would take a deal of trouble to find gambling houses and bad women."

"He would only have ended up seducing his neighbors' wives." Bess turned a shirt right-side out, to inspect a darn. "But you may be right. He went back, in any case. I suppose only knowing that it was just a few minutes' walk, to the Mermaid or the Queen of Argyll, was too much for him. Especially if he didn't really think there was anything wrong with what he was doing in the first place."

"Is he a relation of Richard Pentyre's, then?" asked Abigail, after the four women had sewed for a time in quiet.

"Oh, Lord, yes! There was bad blood between them, you see, over the land that Pentyre's mother inherited: Well, to my mind the bad blood was inherited, too, because it was Abednego's father that got pa.s.sed over in the will, not Abednego himself. But it was Pentyre he went to when his son was pressed into the Navy, see-as family, you know. I don't know a great deal about the British Navy," she added, setting her sewing down for a moment, to sip her tea. "Nor do I know, how long it takes even for a man who's a friend of the Crown, to get them to turn loose of a common sailor, even if they can find the man, on all their ships all over the seas. So, I don't know the right of it. Abednego claims Pentyre was lazy, and put the matter off, as not important to him, for nearly a year, before they even located what ship poor Davy was on. And by then it was too late."

Eighteen

Rain started late that night, raw and cold. Abigail, since childhood a subject to rheumatism, felt the change of weather in her sleep, and turned restlessly, seeking John's steady warmth, like a heated brick. Seeking, in her dreams, his unquenchable flame of spirit.

But all her dreams were drawn toward darkness. In her sleep she heard Mrs. Hazlitt's wailing: All flesh died, that moved upon the earth . . . fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered All flesh died, that moved upon the earth . . . fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered. Though even in her dream her reason told her that the vision was simply a confused old woman's hallucination, she went to the window and looked out, and saw all of Queen Street drowned in rising waters. Water climbed the brick walls of the opposite houses, rain-pocked in the blackness yet visible with the all-seeing knowledge of dreams. Church bells tolled their wordless warning of danger, and she saw in her dreaming Nabby and Johnny in the next room, clinging together in fright as the water poured silently in over the windowsill. The Dartmouth Dartmouth floated by, laden with its burden of tea, its crewmen waving their cargo manifests and asking to be allowed to vote. floated by, laden with its burden of tea, its crewmen waving their cargo manifests and asking to be allowed to vote.

Rebecca is out there somewhere. A prisoner in one of those attics, with the water rising. She will drown, before we find her. Abigail leaned from the window, feeling the slick wet coldness of the windowsill, the sting of the wind on her face. "Where are you?" she screamed, but her throat would produce no sound. The gale whipped her hair around her face, a vast sable cloud. From the window the whole of the world seemed to be a waste of water, a thousand dark roofs and blind black windows. Rebecca could be trapped behind any one. The bells tolled like thunder, and lightning from the coming storm flickered over the face of the deep. Abigail leaned from the window, feeling the slick wet coldness of the windowsill, the sting of the wind on her face. "Where are you?" she screamed, but her throat would produce no sound. The gale whipped her hair around her face, a vast sable cloud. From the window the whole of the world seemed to be a waste of water, a thousand dark roofs and blind black windows. Rebecca could be trapped behind any one. The bells tolled like thunder, and lightning from the coming storm flickered over the face of the deep.

"Don't give up!" Still no sound. She gasped, trying to force the air from her throat. "We're coming!" And woke upon a gasp, as John touched her shoulder.

"Nab," he whispered, and she clung to him in the darkness that seemed so black after the luminous cat-sight of dreaming. "Beloved-"

At the sound of the church bells she shivered violently. "Who is ringing the bells?" He drew back a little in surprise at the mundane question, and she heard the m.u.f.fled snort of his chuckle.

"Sam's got men at it, turn and turn about," he said. "All along the waterfront, too, ready in case the c.u.mberland c.u.mberland tries to put in or Leslie brings his men over. Is that what you were dreaming of, dear friend? The bells? Do they trouble you?" tries to put in or Leslie brings his men over. Is that what you were dreaming of, dear friend? The bells? Do they trouble you?"

She shook her head. "Just a dream. They'll trouble the British a good deal more." It was good to be able to seek refuge in his arms.

There was no great difficulty in ascertaining whether Abednego Sellars had pa.s.sed the previous Thursday evening where others could see him, particularly not with Boston in a ferment and half the merchants in the town absent from their shops. Abigail abstracted a book of sermons from the top shelf of John's library, wrapped it in rough paper and string, and waited until John left for Old South Church, where the meeting was that day. Though not one of the inner circle of the Sons of Liberty, he was always gone during these gray, louring mornings, at the hour when the countrymen who crowded the streets seemed to vanish as if by magic. Walking from Queen Street down to Milk Street, where Sellars had his chandlery shop, Abigail pa.s.sed Old South, and saw the backs of men cl.u.s.tered in its doorway, and heard the m.u.f.fled outcry of voices within. Sam? Sam? she wondered. she wondered. He could always get a crowd going . . . He could always get a crowd going . . .

Again the thought crossed her mind of the Reverend Bargest out in Gilead, rousing his congregation to just such an outcry: Behold them! Aggh, there she is! Do you not see her? The serpent, with its glaring eyes-Lo, can you not see where the Nightmare comes? There! Behold them! Aggh, there she is! Do you not see her? The serpent, with its glaring eyes-Lo, can you not see where the Nightmare comes? There! There! And everyone in the little congregation wailed, There! And everyone in the little congregation wailed, We see her, we see . . . We see her, we see . . .

You must see! You must must! Behold the witch! She comes NOW through the wall, glowing with the corpse-light of h.e.l.l-!

Only it was Sam's voice she heard in her mind, Can you not see the King? He comes through the wall, glowing with the fires of h.e.l.l, holding a bayonet to the throats of your children- Can you not see the King? He comes through the wall, glowing with the fires of h.e.l.l, holding a bayonet to the throats of your children-!

The case is not the same, Abigail told herself, vexed that the comparison had even crossed her mind. In any case Sam doesn't control the lives of the families of the men who look to him for leadership. In any case Sam doesn't control the lives of the families of the men who look to him for leadership. Even if he did get carried away with his rhetoric and start taking liberties with provable facts. Even if he did get carried away with his rhetoric and start taking liberties with provable facts.

As she'd known would be the case, only Abednego Sellars's youngest prentice-boy was in the chandlery shop on Milk Street. Bess had informed her-after a few discreet questions-that Penelope Sellars's sister had recently given birth, so there was little fear of encountering the New South deacon's wife in the shop, something Abigail felt guiltily unwilling to do. She had been raised to abhor gossip, and made a careful point, in her discussions with her sisters and Bess of the affairs of various friends and acquaintances, not to spread evil rumors unless they could be definitively substantiated, and then then to put the best face on the matters if possible . . . to put the best face on the matters if possible . . .

But, she told herself, the case is not the same here, either the case is not the same here, either.

Even so, she was glad Penelope Sellars wasn't in the building.

"It might have been Mr. Sellars," said the apprentice, to Abigail's story of a visitor last Wednesday night, just before the rain started, who had been gone before she could be called in from the cowhouse and had left this package, and Pattie had said she thought it might be Mr. Sellars. "In truth he spent that night from home. He was called out to Cambridge, just after dinner, and didn't return in time, and the gates were closed on him . . ." He glanced around the empty shop, with its neat packages of candles and rope, soap and nails, as if for listening ears. His voice sank to a whisper. "Mrs. Sellars, she wasn't any too pleased, either. The squawk she set up!"

Abigail said, a little primly, "Well, if Mr. Sellars was in Cambridge Wednesday night, he could not be the man who left this book upon my husband's doorstep, could he? I think it would be a favor to them both, if you mentioned nothing of this."

"No, m'am." He looked like he might have said something else-mentioned the deacon's latest "ladyfriend" on the North End?-but only repeated after a moment, "No, m'am."

Drat men. Abigail's pattens clinked sharply on Milk Street's cobblestone paving. Abigail's pattens clinked sharply on Milk Street's cobblestone paving. If they have an aversion to a woman, why wed her? If they want to tup harlots, let them marry the hussies to begin with- If they have an aversion to a woman, why wed her? If they want to tup harlots, let them marry the hussies to begin with-then they'd see there's more to happiness than four bare legs in a bed. they'd see there's more to happiness than four bare legs in a bed.

Orion Hazlitt's face returned to her, harsh with sudden anger at the thought of Charles Malvern. Do you ever wish Do you ever wish-?

Yet Rebecca Woodruff had pledged herself to Charles Malvern for her family's sake, long before her path had ever crossed the young stationer's. What G.o.d hath joined, let no man put asunder. What G.o.d hath joined, let no man put asunder.

Rebecca had said that to her, on her first evening in the new house on Queen Street, when she and John had come back to Boston from Braintree a year ago. Rebecca had helped her, Bess, Hannah, and Pattie scrub every surface with hot water and vinegar, move pots and kettles into the kitchen, make up the beds. After dinner was done for all friends and family, Rebecca had remained, to help clean up, and to tell at greater depth the small events that had made up her life during Abigail's year and a half of absence from the town. Orion's name had come up early in the conversation: "He is a good man," Rebecca had said, perhaps too quickly, when Abigail had mentioned the number of times his name had arisen in her letters. "Cannot a woman take pleasure in a man's conversation without all the world winking and smirking, if he but walk her home from church?"

Abigail had replied carefully, "If she is living apart from her husband, it behooves her to take care how she shows her pleasure. Either to others, or to him."

Rebecca had reddened a little in the pallor of the winter twilight, but it was anger that sparkled in her dark eyes, not shame. She had bent over her sewing again. "Those who walk with their gaze in the gutters will see mud wherever they look," she replied after a time. "He tells me his mother is the same. She thinks that any woman who speaks to her son is 'on the catch' to take him away from her her. She's never forgiven him for coming to Boston in the first place, he says, As if he were running away from me! As if he were running away from me! Which of course is exactly what he was doing. She thinks the young ladies of the Brattle Street congregation are heretics, let alone me, whether I were married or not. And I Which of course is exactly what he was doing. She thinks the young ladies of the Brattle Street congregation are heretics, let alone me, whether I were married or not. And I am am married," Rebecca went on. "Abigail, I do not forget that. married," Rebecca went on. "Abigail, I do not forget that. What G.o.d hath joined, let no man put asunder . . . What G.o.d hath joined, let no man put asunder . . . not even the man who has cast me out." not even the man who has cast me out."

It had been on Abigail's lips to ask, What if things were different What if things were different?

But they were not different, nor would they be. So she had held her peace.

"Mrs. Adams?"

Startled, Abigail turned, as she came into the open s.p.a.ce between the Old State House and the Old Meeting House-the very place where, three and a half years ago, British troopers had opened fire on a mob of unarmed civilians-to see a man approaching from the doorway of the State House, wrapped in a thick gray cloak. His hat shadowed the pristine gleam of hair powder, but even before he came close enough for her to see his face her heart leaped to her throat.

"Heavens, man, are you insane?" She strode over to him, and he removed his hat and bowed: It was Lieutenant Coldstone, sure enough, and in uniform beneath that very military-looking cloak. He wasn't even accompanied by the faithful Sergeant Muldoon.

"On the contrary," said the young officer, "you could scarcely call upon me, m'am. And we are not half a mile from the soldiers at the Battery."

"With all of-oh, what is it? Twenty troops? Do you think they'd even turn out, if they heard a mob going after a Tory who wasn't smart enough to keep off the streets at a time like this? What on earth are you doing here?"

"My duty," he responded stiffly, as Abigail caught him by the arm and almost dragged him down King Street toward the relative safety of the Battery. "We were sent to escort the Fluckner family across to Castle Island"-Thomas Fluckner was a crony of Governor Hutchinson's-"and I thought to improve the occasion by asking if you had had time to pursue inquiries on the North End. I left a note with your girl, that I would return at three. The town seems quiet enough."

"That's because they're all at Old South Church, listening to my husband's cousin tell them the Crown has no right to tax British citizens without the consent of their elected representatives in Parliament, or or set up a monopoly on any item for the benefit of his personal friends." set up a monopoly on any item for the benefit of his personal friends."

Coldstone's lips parted on the words Three pence a pound Three pence a pound-and closed again. She thought he might have followed this up with an argument beginning, Nevertheless, it is the law Nevertheless, it is the law . . . but that look, too, pa.s.sed from his eyes. He only said, "You are quite right, Mrs. Adams. It was foolish of me." . . . but that look, too, pa.s.sed from his eyes. He only said, "You are quite right, Mrs. Adams. It was foolish of me."

For a moment King Street was quiet indeed, save for the eternal tolling of the bells. Then he continued, "Last night I reviewed the notes I made at the time of the Fishwire murder, and those of my predecessor. The regiment had only just taken up post at Castle William. The previous Provost Marshal seemed to have the att.i.tude that a woman who has been reduced to selling her body deserves whatever befalls her, and merely noted the savagery of the post mortem slashing. I was angry, both that he would make no more of it than he did, and because it was plain to me that his neglect in pursuing the first murder had left the culprit at large to commit a second. For that reason, though it was deemed a civil matter only, when the constable reported it to the Provost Marshal-in his usual weekly report, and thus some days after the event-I asked permission to visit the Fishwire house."

"And did you have dung thrown at you by the local children?" inquired Abigail. When he did not reply, she glanced sidelong up at the young man's face, and added, more kindly, "There are few enough in Boston who would take such trouble, for a woman who made her living fixing hair and selling herbs."

"Few in London either." Coldstone didn't return her glance. His dark, clear eyes roved to the muddy flats that lay on their left as they emerged from Kilby Street, the rough, open ground on both sides of the Battery March below the slope of Fort Hill, as if seeking signs of danger.

"Are you from London, Lieutenant Coldstone?"

That brought his eyes back to her, and put that little crease back in the corner of his mouth. "Not originally. My parents lived in Kent. They didn't start bringing me to London with them until I was seven or eight. I've always preferred the country. Even as a child, I think I sensed that London was a place where a poor woman could be slashed to death, or a poor child trampled by a rich man's horse, and no one would really care. This seems to hold true in Boston as well."

"I think it holds true in many places." Abigail made a wry smile. "As Londoners consider themselves the pattern-cards for the conduct of all the world, I suppose this is as it should be. What did you make of the house when you saw it? Or the victim?"

"Little enough." Below them, among the scattered buildings around Oliver's Wharf, two redcoats stood on guard while three British sailors, in their striped jerseys and tarred pigtails, helped the crew of a small sloop unload barrels of provisions. For the men of the Battery, Abigail a.s.sumed: the soldiers whose little palisaded barrack stood at the foot of Fort Hill to their left. Just ahead of them on the other side of the Battery March lay the walled park of the guns themselves, thirty-five cannon set to defend the Harbor against the French who had never come.

There were, Abigail observed, more soldiers on guard there than was usual, but not so great a number as to provoke fears of a landing or an invasion. Her estimation of Colonel Leslie's good sense rose. Beyond the line formed by Milk Street and School Street, the southern portion of the Boston peninsula was but thinly inhabited, open fields, cow pastures, vegetable gardens, builders' yards, and rope-walks prevailing along the unpaved lanes. In general the soldiers stationed at the Battery kept themselves strictly to themselves, did their drinking on-post, and did not venture into the town even in times of quiet.

Beside her, Coldstone continued, "The constable had already given the landlord leave to clear the place up. Fools-" His brow darkened. "Any sign the killer might have left behind was gone, and of course none of the neighbors had a word to say to me. It was clearly the work of a madman, yet there is something-" He shook his head. "At the risk of sounding like the very men I derided a moment ago, I will say that my observation has been that a harlot-and Mrs. Barry was well known about the wharves, apparently-puts herself in danger by the very nature of her work. It is not at all uncommon, for one to be slashed, or even killed."

"I suppose in London," said Abigail softly, "one would see a good deal more of that sort of thing, than here."

"As you say, Mrs. Adams. But why this man, whoever he was, would have attacked a hairdresser hairdresser, and a woman of some fifty years to boot-"

"I know not whether this lightens or darkens the issue," said Abigail. "But dressing hair was not all that Mrs. Fishwire did. She was an herbalist, a healer, and an abortionist. Some called her a witch. It was not unusual for her to have visitors at odd hours, well after dark."

"Was it not?" Coldstone halted, where a broad flight of wooden steps led down past John Rowe's warehouses to Rowe's Wharf. On the wharf itself, two redcoats stood guard over a mountain of trunks, crates, and hatboxes, which servants were loading into a launch. In the roadway before Abigail and her escort, a coach had come to a halt, from which a black manservant was handing a ma.s.sive, red-faced gentleman in a crimson greatcoat. Thomas Fluckner, Abigail identified him. One of the richest merchants in Boston and the proprietor of a million acres of Crown lands in Maine.

"Excuse me, m'am." Coldstone bowed, and strode to meet Fluckner, who shook a handful of papers at him and harangued him at some length in his sharp, yapping voice. Abigail caught the words transport transport . . . . . . rights as citizens rights as citizens . . . . . . adequate guard adequate guard . . . . . . Milk Street Milk Street (which was where Abigail knew the Fluckner mansion stood) . . . (which was where Abigail knew the Fluckner mansion stood) . . . always supported His Majesty always supported His Majesty . . . . . .

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. You would need to speak to Colonel Leslie, sir . . ."

Fluckner went back to his carriage and cursed the foot-men. Coldstone returned to Abigail's side. "Forgive me, m'am."

"For doing your duty? Nonsense."

"Even so." He bowed again, as if in a drawing room. "And were Mrs. Fishwire's neighbors any more forthcoming to you than they were to me, about who they may have seen on the night of her murder?"

The name of Abednego Sellars flashed through her mind, only to be thrust aside at once. It was ridiculous, and besides, if he were arrested for murder-particularly one he did not commit-once in the Castle Island gaol, the danger of what he might say about the Sons of Liberty wasn't even to be thought of. "The court is black as a tomb, once dark falls," she said, in what she hoped was a completely natural tone. "The honest folk that live there-and they are are honest folk, who make up the greater part of the North End-close their doors when things begin to get lively at the tavern at the head of the alley. It surprises me none would have come to a woman's outcry, but I should imagine there's a great deal of ruckus most nights . . ." honest folk, who make up the greater part of the North End-close their doors when things begin to get lively at the tavern at the head of the alley. It surprises me none would have come to a woman's outcry, but I should imagine there's a great deal of ruckus most nights . . ."

"And if a man keeps a knife hid up his sleeve or under his coat," said Coldstone quietly, "all he has to do is wait for a woman to turn her back on him, to seize her. Many times there is no outcry."