Now and then Abigail glimpsed rough, badly shaven faces, and the coa.r.s.e textures of hunting shirts and tattered farm coats in the tavern doorways. They're coming in from the countryside They're coming in from the countryside, she thought, and remembered how Sam and Revere had summoned nearly threescore men to stand in Queen Street when Coldstone arrived to arrest John. Not rioting, not threatening-just standing there. Standing there and outnumbering the little party of British a dozen to one.

Men shouted at the sight of Sergeant Muldoon's red coat. Someone threw muck from the roadway at them. On every building, it seemed, the rallying-posters for the meeting at Faneuil Hall had been pasted. A dangerous glitter seemed to fill the air, like the smell of lightning before a storm.

John sprang up from the kitchen table when Abigail came in, having detoured a little out of their way to accompany Muldoon and Coldstone to the small stone building that housed the crew of the gun emplacement at the end of Ship Street. When she tied up Balthazar in the yard and crossed to the back door she was almost stumbling with weariness. John caught her in his arms as she crossed the threshold: "What happened? You're frozen!" He was dressed for the meeting already, in his second-best brown suit, the one he wore to plead in the circuit courts, his best wig on his head. Papers covered the big kitchen table. He drew her to the fire, brought up a small table as Johnny darted to drop a swift kiss on her cheek, then dashed through the back door to look after the horse. Nabby left her schoolbook to throw her arms around Abigail's neck-"We were looking for you for hours!"-and Pattie hurried into the icy scullery, to come back with b.u.t.ter, cheese, bread. "We'll have coffee in a trice-"

Abigail cursed the Crown for making it impossible for her to drink tea at this moment.

John chaffed her hands: "Run fetch your mother some warm slippers, Nabby, and her shawl. Was she there?" he asked more quietly, as their daughter dashed away up the tight-shut little box of the stairway. "Did you learn aught?"

"Only that there are as many witch-hunters and religious fanatics in Ma.s.sachusetts as ever there were in the old days." She put her hand to his cheek as he gently unlaced and drew off her boots and stockings. "Catherine Moore told me nothing of Rebecca's past or family that I did not know already, from Rebecca herself, or from Scipio and Mr. Malvern. Nor can I find anyone who might have had reason to harm Mrs. Pentyre. The only thing I learned was just how impossible it would be for Rebecca to take refuge with Catherine's family, always supposing she could get out of the town at all last Wednesday night. And I suppose Sam has found nothing?"

John shook his head.

"Has he gotten a man into Rebecca's old house?"

"Impossible. The Tillets are refusing to rent to anyone. To tell the truth, once the Dartmouth Dartmouth was sighted-and that was but two hours after you left-neither Sam, nor Revere, nor any of us has had many minutes to spare. Griffin's Wharf is surrounded. One customs man tried to force his way through to examine the cargo and was tarred and feathered-" was sighted-and that was but two hours after you left-neither Sam, nor Revere, nor any of us has had many minutes to spare. Griffin's Wharf is surrounded. One customs man tried to force his way through to examine the cargo and was tarred and feathered-"

Abigail flinched, sickened at her recollection of the single time she'd seen that form of mutilation done.

"Not being idiots, the stevedores sent to unload the tea didn't even make the attempt. Sam sent men out to Cambridge, Roxbury, and Dorchester the moment the ship was sighted, and more messengers went out as soon as the time and place for the meeting tonight were set. There's a man on top of Beacon Hill, watching Castle Island, but Colonel Leslie hasn't stirred. I pray G.o.d he does not," he added grimly. "The last thing we need is to give the men aboard the c.u.mberland c.u.mberland reason to start sh.e.l.ling the town." reason to start sh.e.l.ling the town."

"They wouldn't!"

"They won't if they think doing so would cause more damage than rioters. I must go," he added, as Nabby scampered back into the kitchen with Abigail's knitted wool slippers and stoutest shawl. "We're meeting at the Green Dragon at eight: Sam, Revere, Warren, Church, Hanc.o.c.k, and I. The Faneuil meeting later will be a bear-garden. We need to know in advance what measures to propose. Sam at least knows that we have to move carefully, if we're to keep support in England and not be dismissed as hooligans out for nothing but loot."

Abigail nodded again. She had been aware for years that despite the cries of Democracy, the heads of the Sons of Liberty took care to plan their strategies closely, and leave as little as possible to the whims of the rank and file. Sam kept a finger on the pulse of the poor men, the laborers, the dispossessed and discontented, but he knew well that they could be swayed by the urgings of other men as easily as by his own. John was his balance wheel, his gauge for what would work and what only sounded well.

"By the by, this came for you this morning." He held out a thick little letter, addressed in Scipio's neat hand. The outer sheet enclosed a second missive on much finer paper-though not, she observed, anything like that of the forged note. In nearly illegible French handwriting, it informed her that M. Pentyre had indeed visited the house of Mme. Belle-Isle Wednesday night, leaving shortly after eleven. Clarice, the maid of Mme. Belle-Isle, would not drink rum and so Lisette had been obliged to purchase a bottle of smuggled French cognac for two dollars with which to ply her to obtain this information.

Feeling as if she had stumbled into a more than usually tawdry novel, Abigail brought up a couple of tallow work-candles and wrote out a little invoice for Charles Malvern: I feel the woman's information is truthful, so far as she has been told the truth. If nothing else, it clears the ground for further inquiry I feel the woman's information is truthful, so far as she has been told the truth. If nothing else, it clears the ground for further inquiry . She then brought out the packet of letters that Catherine Moore had given her. . She then brought out the packet of letters that Catherine Moore had given her.

Though they-and the remainder of Rebecca's letters to herself, that she'd started to read the previous Sat.u.r.day-brought back clearly the memories of those times, and stirred anew her anxiety for her friend, they told her nothing new. Rebecca rarely mentioned her family, or the friends she had known in Maryland in her youth. Those were very much of the "Jess will be old enough to start school now," variety-whoever Jess might be.

Abigail blushed once to find her own name, coupled with grateful praise: "She is so patient with my stupidity in the kitchen . . . One day I hope to have her steadiness of heart . . ."

If you think my heart is steady, my dear, it's only because you haven't been around when Charley p.i.s.sed in the kitchen fireplace. Abigail lowered the page to her lap. In the overcast dark, church bells all over the city had begun to toll, summoning Friends, Brethren, and Countrymen to Faneuil Hall. The strange, slow ringing had a sinister note, profoundly unlike the brisk music of Sunday. Could Rebecca hear them, wherever she was? Sam had had word out for a week now, for all those Friends, Brethren, etc. to be looking for her, and there had been no word of her nor word of her body. Abigail lowered the page to her lap. In the overcast dark, church bells all over the city had begun to toll, summoning Friends, Brethren, and Countrymen to Faneuil Hall. The strange, slow ringing had a sinister note, profoundly unlike the brisk music of Sunday. Could Rebecca hear them, wherever she was? Sam had had word out for a week now, for all those Friends, Brethren, etc. to be looking for her, and there had been no word of her nor word of her body.

If she were free to leave Boston, why would she not have come to me?

It was nearly midnight when John returned. Abigail, still reading by the fireplace, looked up at the sound of the latch. The men slipped through like fugitives: all the group who met at the Green Dragon regularly over matters of coordinating the patriots in the various Boston wards, and corresponding with like-minded men in far-flung colonies like New York, Philadelphia, Virginia. Her fair-haired, delicate-looking cousin Josiah Quincy, young Dr. Warren, smooth-voiced Dr. Church, and dark Ben Edes, Sam rubbing his hands and smiling with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye, for all the world like the Reverend Atonement Bargest out in Gilead, soaking up praise for his excellent sermon on the dangers of demons that only he could see.

The resemblance doesn't end there, thought Abigail, smiling a little to herself as the men cl.u.s.tered around her, gripped her hand, all talking a mile a minute and all about their own affairs. She could have been Queen Charlotte or Helen of Troy for all they actually saw her, so preoccupied were they about the announcement to go out tomorrow that all the East India Company consignees for the Dartmouth Dartmouth's tea must report to the Liberty Tree-at the head of the Neck-to resign their appointments, and the plan to have riders go out to farther-flung towns. So many hundred pamphlets from Edes, so many from Hazlitt, so many from Thomas over at the Spy Spy-meet again tomorrow to coordinate details-John, you'll get us up a draft of what we're to say to the harbormaster about refusing to unload the ship . . .

Sam smiling at this man, clapping that one on the shoulder, or gripping that one's arm. She could almost see him commanding Brother Lament-Sin to put her and Thaxter up for the night (in that atrocious, freezing freezing loft with his daughters), or directing Brother Mortify to guide them on their way again. loft with his daughters), or directing Brother Mortify to guide them on their way again.

And Sam would react, thought Abigail uneasily as she bade them good-night, exactly as the Hand of the Lord would react to the smallest suggestion of unbelief, should she, Abigail, say to him: I think Perdita Pentyre's killer is a Son of Liberty. I think your organization numbers a madman in its midst I think Perdita Pentyre's killer is a Son of Liberty. I think your organization numbers a madman in its midst.

John was gone in the morning. Whether under bond for thirty pounds or three hundred, reflected Abigail wryly, it wouldn't keep him from committing sedition against the Crown right here in Boston. Her two days of absence had left a staggering backlog of tasks which Pattie had simply not had the time to accomplish-from cleaning lamps and candlesticks to bringing the household account books up to date-so although her bones ached with weariness and rheumatism, Abigail forced herself to rise when John did, milk the cows, and set about making breakfast while Pattie rinsed and scalded the milk-pails. John kissed her when she brought his cider and oatmeal to the kitchen table: " 'Tis good to have you home." And then vanished through the back door, to meet with Sam and the others before the main meeting of Friends, Brethren, etc. at nine.

The bells had tolled all night, and were tolling still. A warning of peril, of invasion, their sound would carry across the bay to Charles Town and Winnisimmet, to Braintree and Lynn; inland to Medford and Concord. Summoning Friends, Brethren, and Countrymen into Boston, to make their stand against the King's a.s.sumption that he could arbitrarily clap a tax on whatever goods he thought people couldn't do without-that he could with a scratch of his pen inform the colonists that they must buy their goods only from his friends.

In Scotland, in times of invasion, the men of the clans would burn a cross on the highest hill, that the men of the clan would know to a.s.semble in arms. Even so, thought Abigail, as she dipped water from the boiler on the hearth into the washbowl for the dishes-even so the sound of the bells went out, to that great clan that Cousin Sam had formed with his skill and his charm and his wily understanding of human nature. And in Medford and Dorchester, Cambridge and Lynn, men were turning the management of their farms and shops over to their wives and mothers, and starting out for Boston.

Is it someone in the Sons of Liberty? it someone in the Sons of Liberty? She probed and tested at the thought, as if trying to untangle a necklace without breaking its delicate links. She probed and tested at the thought, as if trying to untangle a necklace without breaking its delicate links. Is that why he bound Rebecca, shut her up in her room? Or did he do that because he wanted her alive, wanted her to return to him . . . Is that why he bound Rebecca, shut her up in her room? Or did he do that because he wanted her alive, wanted her to return to him . . .

Yet she couldn't imagine Charles Malvern taking a knife to a girl of twenty. Exposing her affaire affaire with this second Adonis-if indeed such an with this second Adonis-if indeed such an affaire affaire were not merely Lisette's rather Gallic interpretation of an innocent admiration-certainly. And possibly Malvern's vindictiveness would have extended to spying on Rebecca, by which means he'd have learned of the misdeeds of his rival's flighty bride in the first place. But further than that . . . were not merely Lisette's rather Gallic interpretation of an innocent admiration-certainly. And possibly Malvern's vindictiveness would have extended to spying on Rebecca, by which means he'd have learned of the misdeeds of his rival's flighty bride in the first place. But further than that . . .

Her mind chased itself in a circle, trying to fit what she knew into what she could only surmise.

Richard Pentyre would be hearing the bells, in that handsome house on Prince's Street. They'd pa.s.sed it last night, riding back from the ferry, its old walls of timber and stone covered over with handsome brick, its old gabled attics remodeled with a fashionable mansard roof. There'd been a handbill plastered to the door already, demanding that Pentyre report himself to the Liberty Tree and resign his appointment, as the tea consignees in Philadelphia and New York had resigned theirs. None of the Ma.s.sachusetts consignees had yet done so: Probably, reflected Abigail wryly, their father the Governor wouldn't let them. If- "Mama!" Johnny and Nabby flung themselves panting through the back door, red-faced with the cold. "Soldiers are coming!"

Had Abigail been a swearing woman, she would have sworn. She hadn't yet taken her hands from the washbasin when she heard knocking at the front door, and Pattie's swift step from the parlor where she'd been cleaning the grate- Abigail strode into the little hallway in time to see the girl open the door and yes, for that first instant the aperture seemed to be filled with the color of the King's Men and blood. She was conscious of Nabby and Johnny at her side, half hiding behind her skirts but at the same time determined not to leave her. The thought flashed through her mind, Johnny's six! He shouldn't have to be trying to protect his mother from soldiers. Johnny's six! He shouldn't have to be trying to protect his mother from soldiers. In the kitchen, Tommy started to wail in fright, and from the street outside came the unmistakable In the kitchen, Tommy started to wail in fright, and from the street outside came the unmistakable thunk thunk of a thrown glob of mud and a child chanting, "Lobsterbacks, lobsterbacks . . ." of a thrown glob of mud and a child chanting, "Lobsterbacks, lobsterbacks . . ."

There's only two of them . . .

Lieutenant Coldstone stepped forward across the threshold, removed his hat, and bowed. "Mrs. Adams? Please forgive this intrusion. May I beg a few minutes of your time? I've come to ask your help."

Fifteen

"In the past eighteen months, two other women have been killed in the same fashion as Mrs. Pentyre." Lieutenant Coldstone stretched his hands to the small blaze in the parlor hearth, newly kindled and struggling, but his coffee-dark gaze remained on Abigail's face.

Abigail stared at him, feeling as if she had been struck. Two-? Two-? And then, sickened that she had not thought earlier to ask, And then, sickened that she had not thought earlier to ask, Why did I think she was the only one Why did I think she was the only one?

She took a deep breath, yet could think of nothing to say.

"One was a wh.o.r.e, the other a hairdresser-common women-"

"And does a woman's poverty or morals make her more deserving of that horror horror?" She fought the urge to pick up a stick of firewood from the box beside the hearth and smash it over that immaculately powdered wig.

"No, of course not," he replied calmly. "But it does make it curious that the third victim was a wealthy woman, a married woman, and a woman who under normal circ.u.mstances could not be easily got at by a stranger who did not have an introduction to her."

Abigail opened her mouth again to snap a response, then thought about his words, and closed it. Her mind darted at once to Charles Malvern's house, and how it was never entirely still: always the distant tread of a servant, the sense of other people at call. When Rebecca had taken up her first set of rooms in that cheap lodging house on the North End, after six months of living with the Adamses on Brattle Street, she had said, It feels so queer, to come in from the market, and know I'll be there alone It feels so queer, to come in from the market, and know I'll be there alone.

She said, slowly, "And Mrs. Malvern was was poor, and poor, and she she lived alone . . . as I presume the other two did. And though her landlord had servants and prentice-boys, they were not in the same house with her. lived alone . . . as I presume the other two did. And though her landlord had servants and prentice-boys, they were not in the same house with her. She She fits the pattern, not Mrs. Pentyre." fits the pattern, not Mrs. Pentyre."

"Precisely. And, Mrs. Pentyre deliberately took considerable trouble-ordering her husband's man to harness a chaise for her, and driving herself through the rain on a pitch-black night-to put herself into a locality of danger. Why?"

Abigail shook her head. The forged note, in the code of the Sons of Liberty, seemed to her mind to be crying out from the drawer in the sideboard where she had put it, like a kitten in a cupboard. "I can't imagine. Who were the other two?"

"Zulieka Fishwire was found in her own house, on the floor of her parlor, her throat cut and her body mutilated quite as horribly as Mrs. Pentyre's was. It was as difficult to tell the circ.u.mstances of Jenny Barry's murder as it was Mrs. Pentyre's because Jenny Barry was a woman of the town. Like the other two, her throat had been cut with what appears, by the wound, to have been a thin, long-bladed knife. I would guess also that like the other two, she was violated as well as slashed, but given her occupation it is less easy to be certain of that."

He spoke matter-of-factly, as if to another man, something Abigail appreciated but found more disconcerting than she had thought she would. John was one of the few men she knew who did not skirt around the subject of the prost.i.tutes who trolled the wharves and serviced the sailors, but he would never have brought the subject up with a woman he had barely met. "Her body was found among the barrels near Scarlett's Wharf. It had obviously been taken there, because there was no blood on the scene, even"-the Lieutenant's cold eye rested disapprovingly upon Abigail-"as there was no blood in the house where Mrs. Pentyre's body was found."

Abigail felt a flush mount to her cheeks. What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood cries out to me from the ground. What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood cries out to me from the ground.

Not Mrs. Pentyre's blood-the blood of that pa.s.sionate, not-always-wise girl who sought to get even with her straying husband and help her country at the same time . . . who had wanted to be the heroine of a novel. But the blood of the next woman to die at the killer's hand because she, Abigail, would not describe to this man what she had actually seen.

"I am given also to understand," the Lieutenant went on drily, "that poverty and solitude were not the only things that Mrs. Malvern had in common with the other two. Which makes it interesting to me-"

"If by that you mean that you give credence to that poisonous Queensboro woman's hints that Mrs. Malvern had lovers, it's a lie."

"Is it?" He regarded her without change of expression, but something in his eyes made Abigail realize, with a sudden blast of fury, that Queenie had a.s.sumed-because of his legal help, and the fact that for six months Rebecca had lived under his roof-that John was one of them. And that she had told this man so.

"Who did she name? Orion Hazlitt?"

"One of them, yes."

"Orion Hazlitt has been desperately in love with Rebecca Malvern since they met over printing work he was doing. He's an intelligent young man but he was not well educated. Mrs. Malvern, who teaches a dame school, helped him with the spelling and arrangement of ma.n.u.scripts he was given to print. I suppose it's the fashion to believe calumny rather than innocence, but I have been friends with Mrs. Malvern for six years, and there was no more between them than his longing for someone in his life other than his execrable mother, and Mrs. Malvern's determination to remain faithful to a husband who treated her like a dog. I take it another of the accused was my husband?"

Coldstone inclined his head.

"As too close a party to the case any testimony of mine would be disbelieved," said Abigail, "so I will not waste your time with trying to prove a negative. And the third, I suppose, was Mr. Tillet-"

"Who owned the house she lived in, which he could have rented for considerably more than she paid him-"

"Had his wife not had in her so convenient a slave for sewing shirts. Mrs. Queensboro is a woman who lives in furtiveness and spite, Lieutenant. I would weigh very carefully any testimony she gives you."

"Including the fact that you were at Mrs. Malvern's door Thursday morning, long before the Watch was called?"

"I had contracted with Mrs. Malvern to do some sewing for me," replied Abigail steadily. "And, as I said to you that morning, I pa.s.sed by to ask, was there anything I could purchase for her at the market, as I knew it was difficult for her to do so because of teaching."

Coldstone regarded her in silence, his head a little on one side. He still bore a bruise on his forehead, where he'd struck his head when his horse had come down with him Tuesday; its edges were starting to turn yellowy green. Pattie knocked at the parlor door, then entered bearing a tray n.o.bly laden with coffeepot, bread and b.u.t.ter, new cream, and a small dish of hunks of brown Jamaican sugar. The girl laid her burden on the small table that she drew up between them, curtseyed, and withdrew again, and it was some moments before Coldstone spoke.

"Mrs. Adams," he said, "I apologize if I have angered you. I did not mean to do so. I came here seeking your help-"

"To put my husband's neck in a noose?"

"To keep it out of one," said Coldstone. "The Provost Marshal has quite good reason to believe that your husband either did the murder himself, or knows a great deal more about it than any honest man has any business knowing-" He held up his hand as Abigail opened her mouth to snap a protest. "Yet having bettered my acquaintance with you, I cannot believe that you would be party to such a crime, nor that Mr. Adams could succeed in keeping it from you. Much less so, because of its connection with the other two."

"No woman would be."

He was silent a moment. Then, "A few years ago I would have agreed with you, m'am. But one doesn't cross the Atlantic Ocean in the same troopship with British Army camp followers, without coming into contact with the sort of people I had previously a.s.sumed existed only in the plays of Euripides. As I was taught in Gray's Inn, I can only speak to what I know 'of my own knowledge.' I do not trust your motives, m'am, nor your loyalties, but I do trust your judgment of the man to whom you are married. I think that you would very likely cover over a murder that Mr. Adams did-but not this this murder." murder."

"No," said Abigail softly. "I would not." And then, "Bread and b.u.t.ter, Lieutenant?"

"Thank you, m'am. It has been some time," he added after a moment, "since I have tasted either that was not adulterated by Army contractors. Your skills as a housewife do you great honor."

She thought, Oh, the poor boy Oh, the poor boy, her heart melting-and mentally slapped her own wrist in disgust. Knows more than any honest man has any business knowing Knows more than any honest man has any business knowing indeed! indeed!

"What makes your Provost Marshal so sure that it could have been my husband?"

He shook his head. "I'm not at liberty to disclose it, m'am. Physically, he could have committed the crime-"

"He could not could not." She paused with the coffeepot suspended over a cup, silently wishing she could pour the steaming liquid into her guest's pristine white lap. "He would would not." not."

"There is a difference between those two things, Mrs. Adams, as I'm sure, as a lawyer's wife, you are aware. Your husband is in the thick of organizations whose stated goal is to disrupt the smooth working of His Majesty's government here in the colony. He is moreover the a.s.sociate of men involved in large-scale smuggling operations which aid Britain's enemies. Your husband did indeed spend Wednesday night at the Purley's Tavern outside of Salem, yet a smuggler-craft could have brought him to Boston in an hour-"

"Not in that weather, it couldn't."

"You underrate their skill, m'am. He moreover is good friends with the woman in whose house the body was found: a woman separated from her husband, who has lived under Mr. Adams's protection and whose legal affairs Mr. Adams has looked after, pro bono. Had he wished to harm Mrs. Pentyre, what safer way to do so, than to mimic the methods of a lunatic who has killed two other women and has gone untaken? He chooses a night on which the Tillets are known to be absent. The renter of the house then flees, and you-Mr. Adams being bonded to remain in Boston and being moreover under suspicion-undertake a two-day journey into the backcountry, where an officer of the Crown would take his life in his hands to go-to warn or inform her-"

"Do you honestly think that's what happened?" demanded Abigail, appalled.

Coldstone was silent, studying her face, she realized, as she had studied Charles Malvern's, when she had broken the news to him of Rebecca's disappearance. She didn't flee She didn't flee, she wanted to shout at him. She was imprisoned in her room, her blood was on the pillow of her bed, and on the floor beside the door- She was imprisoned in her room, her blood was on the pillow of her bed, and on the floor beside the door- And Paul Revere and Dr. Warren had neatly mopped it away. She found herself trembling all over.

"No," he said after a time. "No, I don't. All these things-these possibilities-are like objects in a room, like furnishings well arranged. But there is another room, and in that room is the possibility that the same man who killed Mrs. Fishwire and Jenny Barry has started killing again. As all such men invariably will."

"And that matters to you."

"Yes. It does."

Silence again. Abigail handed him the cup of coffee, and looked around for the bell with which Pattie could be summoned to the parlor. Of course it was missing-Charley and Johnny were forever taking it to sound the alarm against imaginary Indian attacks-so she murmured, "Excuse me," went to the door, and called, "Pattie, dearest? Could you bring us some of my marmalade? Do you like marmalade, Lieutenant? And some of your gingerbread, if it's ready-" She returned to her chair beside the fire.

"These other women who were killed. When did it happen? I think I would have heard-"

"Jenny Barry was killed in June of 1772. Zulieka Fishwire in September of the same year."

September of '72. The month Tommy was born. The same month, she remembered, that word had finally reached Rebecca that her father had died the previous May. They had still been at the farm in Braintree then. None of her Smith or Quincy aunts or cousins would have written to her about the murder of a woman with a name like Zulieka Fishwire; certainly not about the death of a prost.i.tute. Common women Common women-she heard Coldstone's light, cool voice say the words again. So worthless are women's deaths held. So worthless are women's deaths held. "And none since?" "And none since?"

"None that have come to the ears of authority." He stretched his hands to the fire again, his face as inexpressive as stone. "I am certain the owner of the brothel or tavern where the Barry woman met her end hid the circ.u.mstances, lest his trade be hurt. There may have been others, between that time and the murder of Mrs. Fishwire."

"Did they know one another? Or have acquaintance in common?"

"That I don't know. They lived in the same part of the town, Mrs. Fishwire on Love Lane, and Mrs. Barry somewhere nearby along the waterfront."

"And Scarlett's Wharf lies not a quarter mile from the Tillet house," murmured Abigail.

"Was Mrs. Malvern acquainted with Mrs. Pentyre? Her maid said, not."

"Her maid didn't know Mrs. Malvern's name," said Abigail. "In fact they knew one another slightly-chance met at Mr. Hazlitt's stationery store, at a guess."

A slight crease flickered into existence between the Lieutenant's pale, perfect eyebrows; he reached into his coat and brought out a folded half sheet, which he held out to her. "Would this be Mrs. Malvern's handwriting?"

Forgive my error beneath the elms on the Common. Your precious Finch. Abigail remembered vaguely that Abigail remembered vaguely that error error was a meeting, but knew that was a meeting, but knew that the Common the Common wasn't really the Commons-she forgot what the transposition was. She shook her head. "It does not look familiar." She could always plead nearsightedness if later caught in the lie. "Is this one of the notes that Mademoiselle Droux spoke of her mistress receiving?" wasn't really the Commons-she forgot what the transposition was. She shook her head. "It does not look familiar." She could always plead nearsightedness if later caught in the lie. "Is this one of the notes that Mademoiselle Droux spoke of her mistress receiving?"

"You've spoken to her, then?"

"Of course. Servants are our shadows, Lieutenant Coldstone. They see ladies without their paint, and gentlemen before they don their wigs in the morning. If one cannot talk to a man about an event, the next best thing is to ask his servants."

"Sometimes the best thing, Mrs. Adams." The cold seraph face suddenly turned human and young with a quick smile. "The man himself is doubtless lying. And did you in fact ride all the way out to Danvers, to speak with Mrs. Malvern's former maid?"

"I did. It wasn't Danvers, but Townsend, a hamlet in that direction-and in fact it wasn't even in the village, but some distance away. A vile journey." She shivered at the recollection of those shuttered-up houses in Gilead, of the twisted little cripple-boy working the spinning wheel with his withered hands, a task he would pursue, Abigail guessed, for life, having nowhere else to go nor any worth to anyone save for that simple ch.o.r.e. "Mistress Moore told me that there was none she could think of, who would have wished Mrs. Malvern harm. But if it is a madman, it would not be-might not be-anyone she knows."

Except of course that it was, she thought, seeing in her mind the dim glow of firelight in the rain as shutters were opened into the alley, the pinched o o and slightly twisted and slightly twisted in in of the forged note. of the forged note. The Linnet in the Oak Tree. Cloetia. The Linnet in the Oak Tree. Cloetia.