Malvern brought another coin from his pocket, and held it up for Oonaugh to see. "Please tell Miss-"

"Droux, sorr. Lisette Droux."

"Please tell Miss Droux that both Mrs. Adams and I understand how valuable her time is." There was silence, broken only by the creak of a manservant's feet in the hall, and the scratching of Abigail's quill as she penned a hasty note. "Does she read English?"

"I dunno, sorr." Oonaugh looked puzzled by the question. "I shouldn't think so, if she's French."

"Then perhaps you could ask her, if she would meet Mrs. Adams here at her earliest convenience?"

"That I'll do, sorr. You can depend on me."

"Good." He laid the second coin on the table. "You may go." As the door shut behind Oonaugh, he added quietly, "Shall I call Scipio in and have him make more coffee, Mrs. Adams? You look quite exhausted."

She could hear the half hour striking on Faneuil Hall, and tried to recall which hour had pa.s.sed. She felt cold, weary to death, and a little ill. Surely it hadn't been only that morning that she'd started reading through Rebecca's letters of the summer before last, before sallying forth to the market to question Queenie.

"Thank you, sir, no. Thank you," she said again, as he came around to her, to hand her up from her chair. "More than I can say." The thick Spanish dollar he'd held up to Miss Connelley would buy, she guessed, any amount of information from Mlle Lisette Droux, and very quickly, if she knew anything of the cupidity of servants-particularly servants who might be facing unemployment in a foreign city.

He rang the bell nevertheless. Scipio appeared, having evidently disregarded his master's orders to take himself off to bed. "Have Ulee harness the chaise, to take Mrs. Adams home. I trust," he added, as the butler turned to obey, "that I have no need to say that I rely on your discretion, about all things concerning the events of this night, Scipio?"

The servant bowed. "You have no need, sir."

"So Mrs. Adams tells me. If I have not said so before," he went on quietly, "and I may not have, for you know as well as I that I do speak hastily when angry-I value very much the discretion that is natural to you, Scipio; as indeed I value all of your good qualities. Thank you for the help that you have extended to Mrs. Adams, on behalf of-of my good wife."

Scipio inclined his head. "Thank you, sir. Mrs. Adams." And he bowed himself from the room.

When he escorted her to the door some ten minutes later, Malvern said, "Let me know what you learn, Mrs. Adams. If you would," he added, like a man recalling a phrase in a foreign tongue. "I'll have the letters from Woodruff to-to my wife"-again he avoided calling her Mrs. Malvern Mrs. Malvern-"sent over to you next week; I should like to read them myself again. You probably know as much as I do about-about my wife's family-and in any case it is hard to see, after the lapse of nearly eight years, why someone from her past would choose to do violence against an innocent third party in her house."

"I agree," said Abigail quietly. "Yet the killer has to be someone she knows, and trusted."

"Which doesn't preclude Sam Adams or one of his ilk," retorted Malvern grimly. "There!" he added. "That's the three quarters striking! Ulee had best make a little speed, if you're to be home when the Sabbath begins."

Icy wind clawed them as he handed her down the step and into the chaise. Abigail had protested, while they'd waited for it, that the distance was barely five hundred yards to her own door, but in her heart she was grateful, as the glow of the vehicle's lamps caught on flying spits of rain. "If he's a few minutes late," she replied, "I think we can argue, with our Lord, that it comes under the heading of pulling one's ox from a pit. The Sabbath was made for Man, and not Man for the Sabbath."

"Let me know what you learn," he said. "And how I may help you find-Mrs. Malvern."

Quietly, Abigail said, "I will." But as the chaise rattled up King Street, Abigail reflected on how little she had learned, since she'd waked in the morning's cold dawn. She had pulled no ox from any pit. And though a small part of her heart rejoiced at what she thought she had heard in Charles Malvern's voice, she was well aware that she was no closer to knowing Rebecca's whereabouts than she had been on Thursday morning, watching the Sons of Liberty mop Perdita Pentyre's blood from Rebecca's kitchen floor.

Eleven

Mrs. Adams Mistress Lisette Droux will come to the kitchen of my house to meet you at four o'clock this afternoon, having no day but Sunday, to leave her master's house. I hope and trust this meets with your approval?

I remain, Your obedient humble etc.

Charles Malvern "I suppose it isn't to be hoped that Malvern could arrange an interview with Richard Pentyre," remarked John, when Abigail handed him the note that had awaited them on the sideboard on their return from morning service.

"On the contrary, I suspect there's a better chance of getting truth out of the maid than out of the master." Abigail squatted to kiss Charley and Tommy, who generally had a hard time of it on Sabbath mornings while the rest of the family was at Meeting. Both John and Abigail subscribed to the belief that profane matters of the work-day week included weekday toys and games, something Tommy didn't understand yet and Charley pretended not to. Like many children-Abigail included, at age three-he was deeply puzzled and resentful that G.o.d would require him to "sit still and be good" one day out of seven.

"Haven't you told me, John, time and again, that eight murders out of ten turn out to be someone known to their victim?" She rose again to her feet, and spoke softly: oxen, pits, and Sabbath notwithstanding, it wasn't a discussion she wanted small children to overhear. "In spite of the favors and business opportunities that accrued to Mr. Pentyre as a result of his wife's affair with the commander of the British regiment, the fact remains that she was deceiving him, and doing so before the whole of the town."

"And the fact remains that as a firm friend of the Crown, a cousin of our Governor through the Sellars and Oliver families, and a consignee for the East India Company's tea monopoly, Pentyre had no real need of the Army's favors," returned John. "He had, on the other hand, numerous enemies."

"Yet he lives." Abigail hung her cloak on its peg, poured out water to wash her hands: The table for the cold and early Sabbath dinner had been set last night, the food prepared. At three the afternoon service would begin: Young Mr. Thaxter, John's clerk, had agreed to come by with his mother to escort Pattie, Nabby, and Johnny back to the Meeting-House while John remained with the little ones and Abigail embarked on her un-Sabbathlike quest for information. "Why take such pains to lure his wife wife into a trap?" into a trap?"

"Why would Malvern's daughter bribe servants to murder Mrs. Pentyre's dog?" John's face was somber as he picked up Tommy and carried him to the table, where the other children were already taking their places. "There is such a thing as vindictiveness in the world, Portia. I don't suppose, in your conversation with the Malvern servants last night, that you asked after their master's whereabouts on Wednesday night?"

Abigail stared at him, taken aback. "He would not-"

"And I would not," said John. "And yet, someone did."

Lisette Droux was a tiny, dark-haired Frenchwoman in her thirties, with buck teeth and a complexion so pitted by smallpox as to defeat the eye of any but the most willing of suitors. She rose and curtseyed as Scipio showed Abigail into the Malvern kitchen.

"Madame."

"Mistress Droux." A small fire burned on the hearth and warmed the big room, but the neatly stacked dishes, the absence of pans or cooking smells, told her that Charles Malvern held to the Puritan way beneath his own roof. The fire-and the kettle bubbling softly over it-were concessions to Tamar's more fashionable cravings for tea and comforts: Abigail noticed Scipio had provided tea for the maidservant as well. "Did Miss Connelley tell you anything of what I wish to ask you about?"

"No, Madame." At Abigail's gestured invitation, she seated herself on the other side of the table. "Nor would I believe that Irish cocotte if she told me the sun rose in the East. But Scipio tells me you are a friend of the woman in whose house Mrs. Pentyre met her death, the woman who has now disappeared: fled, he says, and perhaps in fear for her life. And since this imbecile from the office of the Provost Marshal seems to think of nothing but that there is a political conspiracy to murder both M'sieu and Madame over this question of tea-"

Abigail said, "What?" and the woman raised her dark, straight brows.

"The imbecile," she explained. "With the pale face and the little nose like a girl's." Her own was a n.o.ble organ; had her uneasy shock at this confirmation of Coldstone's inquiries been less, Abigail would have smiled at the description of her adversary's dainty features. "He asked, did anyone follow Madame, did anyone hide themselves about the stables while Gerald was taking out the chaise for her, did she receive letters threatening her life from such a one, or such a one-"

"Which such-ones?" asked Abigail. "Do you recall any names?"

The maidservant considered the matter, with aloof dis pa.s.sion that seemed to be native to her. It was difficult to tell whether her dark bombazine dress was intended to const.i.tute mourning for her mistress; Abigail was inclined to think not. "Son of Liberty," Lisette said at length, p.r.o.nouncing the words with care. "That was one. Mohawk Mohawk was another he asked after; and was another he asked after; and Adam Adam. And Novanglus Novanglus-that is Latin for . . ."

"New Englander," Abigail finished softly. "Yes, I know." Adam Adam. Or Adams Adams? A mistake would be easy. Mohawk Mohawk, Son of Liberty Son of Liberty, and Novanglus Novanglus were all names under which John had written pamphlets and articles for the were all names under which John had written pamphlets and articles for the Gazette Gazette and the and the Spy Spy.

"It is politics." Lisette shrugged. "It is nothing. One does not do murder over politics. You must take tea, Madame, or coffee if you will-"

Scipio brought a small pot over to the table, and a cup. Abigail in fact found coffee's bitterness unpleasant and cursed the Crown for its tax that had pushed the colony into a boycott of her favorite comforter in the late afternoons, but knew she had to accustom herself to drink the stuff. In Malvern's respectable house there was no hope that the tea had been smuggled in by the Dutch, tax-free.

"How long had you been in Madame Pentyre's employment?"

"Three years, Madame. I was taken on at the time of her marriage. These pamphlets, these Sons of Liberty"-she made a very Gallic gesture with one hand-"When first she married M'sieu Pentyre, my lady read them all, these pamphlets. She would stamp her pretty foot and fling up her hands, so! and shake her hair about. She had lovely hair." A trace of sadness came into her voice, like a woman mourning the loss of some particularly fine roses in a childhood home. "And she would call M'sieu a Tory and a dish-licking dog. M'sieu would laugh, and kiss her, and she would be wild with indignation, and storm away out of the house . . . She was very young, Madame. When M'sieu learned that she had fallen in love with Colonel Leslie, and become his mistress, how how he laughed! 'All it takes is a red coat after all,' he says, and she colors up, and pouts, but we hear no more about the Sons of Liberty." he laughed! 'All it takes is a red coat after all,' he says, and she colors up, and pouts, but we hear no more about the Sons of Liberty."

So much, reflected Abigail, for The Husband's Revenge for The Husband's Revenge. "And when was this?"

"Almost a year, Madame. They become lovers at the New Year, at a ball at the house of the Governor, in the pantry where the silverware is cleaned. I found some of the cleaning-sand in her petticoat-lace afterwards. But since first she is introduced to him, in the summer at a picnic in honor of the officers of the regiment, she has-what is the word? She has set her hat in his direction."

"Did she love him?" asked Abigail. "Or he her?"

One corner of that wry little mouth turned down: Eh, bien, what will these Americans think next Eh, bien, what will these Americans think next? "Oh. Madame. He was quite fond of her-men usually are, if a good-looking woman will consent to go to bed with them. I have heard he is genuinely grieved, and swears that he will hang every Son of Liberty in the colony for the crime. But she-" Lisette shrugged again. "He is the second son of a Scots Earl. Myself, I think my lady was jealous. It was not a month before, that M'sieu took a mistress for himself-"

Abigail tried hard not to look shocked.

"And though he was just as generous to her as he had been before, as I say, she is-she was was-very young."

Abigail closed her eyes briefly, seeing-as if with the memory of a nightmare-the blood-engorged face, the bitten shoulders and neck. So distorted had the features been by the blood pooling in the tissues it would have been hard to tell the woman's age. But it was very much a young girl's trick, to throw herself at the commander of the occupying troops-a man of power, moderately good-looking, and, as Mademoiselle Droux had pointed out, an Earl's second son. To seduce him with her gay youth, with her beautiful hair: telling herself that her adventure was for her country's sake, like the heroine of a play. Yes. She had been very young.

"How old was she?"

"Seventeen, Madame, when she married M'sieu Pentyre. She was twenty when she died."

Abigail drew in a breath, and let it out, thinking about that very young girl. Had it been her husband taking a mistress, that had determined her on revenge? Yesterday morning, rereading Rebecca's letters, she had found several accounts of trips to Castle Island, in quest of pamphlet-worthy gossip at the camp. Perdita Pentyre would have seen in her first a kindred spirit, then a link with the Sons of Liberty themselves, the organization whose writings she read with such eagerness. M'sieu would laugh, and kiss her, and she would be wild with indignation, and storm away out of the house . . . M'sieu would laugh, and kiss her, and she would be wild with indignation, and storm away out of the house . . .

She could almost hear her daughter Nabby shouting at her one day in fury, I'll show you-! I'll show you-!

She was from New York, Abigail recalled; without friends or close connections here to distract her from her adventure. And Colonel Leslie, as she had glimpsed him yesterday, was a well-enough-looking man, and younger than one might expect.

As if she discerned the sadness in Abigail's face, Mademoiselle Droux said, "Eh bien, Madame, it is not as if the Colonel was her only lover."

Abigail snapped sharply from her reverie. "Was he not?" and at the same moment a flash of disgust went through her. As if her sort stops at one As if her sort stops at one, Queenie had sniffed, and standing there in the market yesterday, Abigail had been ready to s.n.a.t.c.h the cook's cap off, and pull her hair. The one she let in through her parlor window . . . This Mrs. Pentyre, if she . . . had someone else she wanted to meet . . . The one she let in through her parlor window . . . This Mrs. Pentyre, if she . . . had someone else she wanted to meet . . .

So it was only a sordid a.s.signation after all.

Oh, Rebecca, no. How could could you? you?

Perdita Pentyre may not have had any connection with the Sons of Liberty at all.

Rebecca had only used their code, as the most convenient one to hand, to help another woman as unhappily wed as she herself had been. No wonder Sam had known nothing about her.

Only it wasn't Rebecca, who had written that note.

Abigail turned the matter over in her mind while Mademoiselle Droux went on. "Mrs. Pentyre, she knew it is bad ton ton, to have two lovers at a time; it smacks of excess. She never spoke of him to me. But, mercredi soir mercredi soir was not the first time that she would have Gerald put the chaise to for her-and pay him well, to keep his mouth shut." Her lips pinched a little: was not the first time that she would have Gerald put the chaise to for her-and pay him well, to keep his mouth shut." Her lips pinched a little: disapproval, or merely the ordering of her thoughts disapproval, or merely the ordering of her thoughts? "I have seen him, this young gentleman, beau comme Adonais beau comme Adonais, watching her so jealously. And when all is said, the Colonel is is five-and-thirty. To a girl of twenty . . ." She shrugged. five-and-thirty. To a girl of twenty . . ." She shrugged.

The rain puddle by the window; would opening the shutters account for that amount of water on her skirt? She'd known the Tillets would be away. And yet-Abigail frowned. Rebecca knew that Queenie spied and told tales. With Mr. Tillet loitering in her house whenever he had the chance, and Mrs. Tillet seething with jealousy and annoyance over how many shirts she thought Rebecca should be sewing for her gratis, would would Rebecca have risked using her house for so small a purpose? Rebecca have risked using her house for so small a purpose?

Particularly when there were any number of women on the North End who did not not have problems with their land-ladies, equally willing to accommodate would-be multiple adulteresses. have problems with their land-ladies, equally willing to accommodate would-be multiple adulteresses.

Something did not fit. "Do you have any idea who this young Adonis is?"

Lisette shook her head. "She would have notes from him, I think, from a woman she always met by chance when she went out walking. A little curly-haired woman, dark, with a snub nose-"

"Rebecca," said Abigail.

"I do not know her name, Madame. The notes were always of commonplaces-trees, or birds, or flowers. But for two women who only met in the streets, I thought they corresponded a great deal about trees, or birds, or flowers. I think it was a cipher, en effet en effet-"

"She showed you these notes?"

"Madame." Mademoiselle Droux gave her another look of pitying patience. "M'sieu Pentyre paid me two dollars each month, to tell him all the correspondence that came to my lady. It is done in all households, Madame," she added, a note of concern in her voice at Abigail's startled reaction, as if rea.s.suring a simpleton that the booming kettledrums in a military parade were not in fact real thunder. "A man is a fool, who does not pay his wife's maidservant-and a woman a fool, who does not pay them even more. One must build one's nest against the storm, particularly if one is thirty-seven years old, and looks as I do."

I want you to remember from now on that you are working for me, Charles Malvern had said to Oonaugh.

The sinister Mr. B of Pamela Pamela was not so unreal as Rebecca had thought. was not so unreal as Rebecca had thought.

"I know everything that my lady received, and tucked away in the hiding places that she thought were so clever, behind the pictures and beneath the mattress of her bed. Thus I know that no one sent my lady these letters of threat that our maiden-faced Provost kept pressing me to say that she had. And so I told him. Was this woman then she in whose house my lady was killed? This Mrs. Malvern, whose name the Provost kept demanding did I know?"

"That is she," said Abigail slowly. "What did Mr. Pentyre have to say of this other man? A Regimental Colonel is one thing-and useful to a merchant, be he never so wealthy. Was he angry over this good-looking stranger?"

"Now you ask me to speculate on the contents of a man's heart, Madame. He laughed and joked his wife about her lovers, yet if any man crossed him in a business way-even a farmer who cheated him a little on the cost of oats for his horses-he make sure that that man became truly sorry that he had done so. He would have his agents find out, had this man ever broken a law? And voila voila, the sheriffs would be at that man's door. Or, a rumor would start in the taverns that the man was, what do you call?-was a Tory, and suddenly these Sons of Liberty would break the windows of that man's shop the next time they rioted. Or the man's horses would be hamstrung one night, and blame would fall on these same Fils du Liberte Fils du Liberte. Would such a man truly shrug his shoulders, if his wife lay with another man?" She spread her hands. "That I do not know."

"And where was Mr. Pentyre, on Wednesday night?"

Something-a little glint like a malicious star-twinkled in the lizard black eyes. "He was not at home, Madame. He told the imbecile officer that he was playing cards with the sons of the Governor, but myself, I believe he was at the house of his mistress. She is a lady of the West Indies, named Belle-Isle; she has a little house on Hull Street, near to the cimitiere cimitiere. Would Madame wish me to ask her maid, if indeed M'sieu Pentyre paid such a call that night?"

Quite casually, she extended a hand as she spoke. It was only a momentary gesture, as if accepting a coin. Four generations of Yankee ancestors cried out in Abigail's heart at such venality, particularly since there was nothing to a.s.sure her that she would be getting the truth for her money. But she replied, "If you would, Mademoiselle, I thank you. I shall-er-make arrangements with Mr. Malvern."

The maid smiled, and nodded appreciation of her tact. "Merci, Madame."

"Was there anyone else? Anyone who might have wished your young lady ill? Either here, or back in New York?"

"All young ladies have their mortal foes, Madame. Oh, such a one has stolen my hairdresser away from me, I shall claw out her eyes with my fingernails, so! Ah, such another has got herself sat next to that most divine preacher at tea, I will strangle her in her own hair-ribbons! Oh, such a one has stolen my hairdresser away from me, I shall claw out her eyes with my fingernails, so! Ah, such another has got herself sat next to that most divine preacher at tea, I will strangle her in her own hair-ribbons! Does one pay heed to such trivialities?" Does one pay heed to such trivialities?"

"One must, in the circ.u.mstances."

"One must, if my lady were found with her eyes scratched out, or strangled in her hair-ribbons," said the older woman somberly. "I saw her body, Madame. I took the clothes off her, and washed her, and dressed her in her prettiest night-dress, that her husband gave her when they were wed, and Madame, I would not admit M'sieu Pentyre into the room until I was done. Even then I kept a cloth over my young lady's face. What was done to her was done by the Devil himself."

Abigail whispered, "Amen," and Mademoiselle Droux crossed herself. "And was she ever afraid of what she could not define? Afraid without reason, of a shadow, or a pas serby?"

"En effet, Madame, my lady was twenty years old, and the young do not frighten easily. If she had such fears, she did not speak of them to me. I did not make of myself a confidante, as so many maids do, except at the very beginning, when she was lonely and her empty-headed mother and sisters in New York did not write to her, if they could could write, which I doubt. But I would sooner be a good maid than a good friend. Unless the friendship is extraordinary, it is too easy for confidence to turn into anger, and then one is on the street again, with nowhere to go." write, which I doubt. But I would sooner be a good maid than a good friend. Unless the friendship is extraordinary, it is too easy for confidence to turn into anger, and then one is on the street again, with nowhere to go."

Abigail thought about Catherine Moore, turned out of her job and obliged to return to the farm of her brother, near Townsend (wherever that that was was) somewhere in the wooded wilds of Ess.e.x County.

In the high kitchen windows the light was fading. This woman would have her duties, back at the great brick Pentyre mansion on Prince's Street. "These notes that Mrs. Pentyre received from the woman in the street. Did she keep them?"

"She locked them away, yes, Madame. Indeed, she took greater care of them, than commonplaces about trees and birds and flowers warranted." She shrugged. "I copied them for M'sieu Pentyre, and the originals, our pretty Provost took away with him. What he shall make of them, I do not know."

"Mademoiselle Droux," she said, "you have been very kind, and your observations extremely helpful."

"When one is forbidden by one's employment to marry," remarked the maid, rising and taking Abigail's proffered hand, "and obliged in it to occupy oneself wholly with the life and concerns of another-and that other, often a person who considers herself the most important object in Creation-one must take amus.e.m.e.nt in observation, or perish. I hope that I have helped you, Madame. My lady was young and foolish, and a little spoilt as girls are who have never been obliged to work for their livings. But she had no malice in her, which cannot be said of many ladies whom I have served. She did not deserve her fate-Jezebel herself would not deserve such an end. The heathen Greeks had G.o.ddesses armed with spears, who hunted down men who did such things to women, and gave them their deserving. I wish you good hunting, Madame."

She made her curtsey again, and signed to Scipio at his little table in the corner, to summon one of the servants to escort her home.

Twelve

"Could you not send a letter?" asked John, following Abigail into the kitchen in the predawn gloom the following morning, where her small portmanteau, cloak, and scarves were heaped, ready to be strapped onto Balthazar's saddle. Young Mr. Thaxter-a stout and good-natured youth related to Abigail through the Quincys-was saddling up in the yard. She felt guilty about not only deserting her husband but taking his horse as well. Still, under the terms of his bond to the Provost Marshal, John wouldn't be going anywhere he couldn't walk to in the next several days. " 'Tis a very long way. Thaxter could take it, as easily as escort yourself."

"Indeed, he could," agreed Abigail equably. She walked to the sideboard where John's leather portfolio lay, along with several letters to clients in Roxbury and Cambridge explaining why it would be impossible for him to attend on them until next week or the week after. "Could not Thaxter also take these depositions for you, instead of bearing Mr. Sweet and Mr. Duggan excuses for postponement?"