Death Of A Dyer

"Dead?" Rees repeated, staring at George Potter in shock. "Dead?" A spasm of unexpected grief shot through him. Although he hadn't seen Nate Bowditch for eighteen years, not since Rees had marched away with the Continental Army in 1777, as boys they'd been closer than brothers. "Are you sure?"

Potter put down his cup with a clink. "Of course I'm sure. His wife herself told me of his death."

"I've never met her," Rees said.

"After almost twenty years? He lives — lived on the other side of Dugard, not the Atlantic Ocean. What happened? You were such good friends."

Rees shrugged; that story was too long to tell. "We ... went in different directions."

"Nate has children, too, did you know? Two sons and a daughter," Potter continued, his expression stern. "I'm sure they'd like to know what happened to their father."

Rees expelled his breath as Lydia Jane entered with more coffee and cake. Potter cast her a glance, his eyes lighting curiously upon the square linen cap covering her dark red hair. Rees did not introduce her, although his eyes involuntarily lingered upon her face. He didn't know what to say. He'd met Lydia, a former Shaker, when he'd pursued his runaway son to the Shaker village of Zion this past summer. Although Rees had fallen in love with her, he was reluctant to marry again, but he hadn't wanted to give her up either. When she had nowhere else to go, he'd invited her to stay with him — as his housekeeper — just until they sorted out their feelings.

Potter turned his attention back to Rees. "It looks like he was beaten to death with a scutching knife, Will. It's murder. And the constable believes Nate's eldest son is the murderer."

"His son," Rees repeated. He was still struggling to digest the news of Nate's death. Nate remained in Rees's memory as the laughing dark haired boy of his youth, not a middle-aged man with a wife and family. "Why does he suspect Nate's son?"

"They were always at loggerheads, those two," Potter said. "Nothing serious, I'm sure. But everyone knew. And Caldwell, with Richard in his sights, won't look at anyone else. The constable is a drunken lout and the crew he hires to help him is worse, tavern rats from the Bull." He paused and when Rees said nothing, went on in a rush. "You know Caldwell will take the easy way, Will. Is that what you want for Nate's son?"

Rees sighed. "And what if he's guilty? Have you thought of that? It won't be the first time a son murdered his father."

Now Potter lapsed into a thoughtful silence, staring off into the distance for several moments. "Yes, I know," he said at last. "But if he is, I would prefer knowing you were the one to come to that conclusion."

"If I look into this, secrets — secrets kept by anyone with the slightest connection to Nate — will come into the light," Rees warned. "You live here, George. Do you want to know everyone's dirty laundry? Know all the little ugly things about the people you love? Including Nate?"

"Nate was my friend. I want his son cleared if he's innocent and the guilty man punished. Besides," Potter added "we have no secrets in Dugard. We're too boring and know each other too well to have secrets."

Rees shot his friend a scornful look. "Everyone has secrets, George, large and small. Illuminating them will bring out anger and fear."

Potter shook his head. "I'll risk it." After a short silence, he said, "Please, Will. You'll work impartially. I know that. Please. I'd look upon it as a favor."

Now, although Rees thought to refuse, he couldn't. Without Potter, Rees wouldn't have been able to recover his farm from his sister Caroline and her husband, Sam. And he'd loved Nate once.

"Very well," he said. "But not tomorrow nor the next day. We're still bringing in the hay, or what there is of it after Caroline's and Sam's poor stewardship." Potter nodded, and the two friends sat again in silence. Rees recalled the expulsion of his sister and her family from the farm a month back. An ugly experience. He hadn't seen Caro since then, but he thought of her every day with regret.

"You had to recover your property," Potter said, reading his old friend's expression without difficulty. "You had no choice. You had to do it for your future and for David's." Rees said nothing. After a pause Potter said, "So, you never visited Nate?"

Rees shook his head. "I wish I had," he said. But the break between them had been so abrupt, he could never figure out how to bridge the chasm. "Didn't he inherit the Bowditch family farm?"

"Yes, but he didn't live there. Thomas farms that one. You remember Nate's brother?"

"Yes," Rees said. Thomas, a paler and younger version of his brother, had tagged after them like a shadow.

"Nate may still own it...." Potter stopped and thought. "Well, no matter. Besides working the farm, Nate served as our local weaver and kept ten to fifteen of the local housewives spinning for him. He required a larger place with a separate cottage."

Rees heard Potter's reproof, but knew that settled life would not suit him. As soon as good weather arrived with the spring, the road would sing its siren song and he would pack his wagon and head out again. Born under the traveling foot, that's what his mother always said.

"Good for Nate," he said.

"Do you know where it is?" Potter asked, extracting a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket and handing it over. "I've written out the directions. I suggest you drive out first thing tomorrow; Molly is waiting on you and will not bury Nate's body until you've taken a look at it."

"Your confidence in my acquiescence astounds me," Rees said, not entirely joking.

"Your passion for justice, if for no other reason, assures your compliance," Potter said, clapping his friend upon the shoulder. "Besides, you loved Nate once. You'll want to do right by him."

Rees inclined his head in acquiescence. Guilt and regret could be powerful spurs. "Yes, all right."

"Good." Rising to his feet, Potter added, "David can manage the harvest. Hire help if you must. Molly will pay a goodly sum to save her son from hanging."

"Wait," Rees cried, gesturing at Potter to resume his seat. "I need more information."

"I don't want to influence you with my opinions," Potter said, remaining upright.

"How old is the boy? Tell me about Nate's wife. I don't remember anyone named Molly."

Potter sighed. "I have an appointment, so I must leave you. Quickly, then. Molly is Margaret Brown. You must remember her older brother, Billy? She was the little tagalong, always at his heels, copying everything he did."

Rees cast his mind back into the past, recalling Billy and the sister who rode and fought as skillfully as any boy. "The bootmaker's children. Nate married her, that little rooster in a hen's body?"

"Yes. You'll scarcely recognize her now. She grew into a lovely and very feminine woman. And Richard, who is just seventeen, was born a few months early, if you catch my meaning, when his mother was but sixteen." Potter grinned at Rees, who nodded. Many girls stepped up to the altar, pregnant, at fifteen or sixteen. Potter clapped his tall hat upon his head. Despite the day's heat, he wore a cutaway swallow-tailed jacket over his pantaloons and glossy riding boots.

Rees, also standing, suddenly felt self-conscious in his rough tow shirt and loose breeches. At least he'd dropped his old shoes with the stink of the barnyard clinging to them on the porch. Called in from the fields and fearing an emergency, he'd raced in without stopping even to wash his face and hands. He followed Potter out to the porch and watched him mount his fine bay gelding. The law had proved a successful career for Rees's old friend.

"You'll do this for Nate," Potter said from his elevated seat on horseback. "And you need this puzzle. Admit it, you crave a challenge. The four walls of this farmhouse must already be pressing in upon you." Without waiting for Rees's response, he wheeled his mount in a circle and galloped down the drive. Dust rose behind him in a cloud.

Rees remained upon the porch, staring into the distance until his friend was long out of sight and the dust had fallen back to earth. He still could hardly believe that Nate was dead.

"Will you do it?" Lydia asked, coming up behind him.

Rees turned and looked at her. She'd left her home with the Shakers to follow him here and seemed to be struggling with the adjustment. She'd been unusually subdued of late. "Of course," he said. "It's the final favor I can offer an old friend."

"You loved him, and when you love you're loyal," she said. "Once you knew about your friend's death, Mr. Potter did not need to ask. And I think he's right about you. You've been a bear with a sore head lately." Rees frowned in disagreement. "Yes, you have. Don't worry. You won't be abandoning us. You'll still be able to help David with chores in the mornings and evenings."

"Potter said Mrs. Bowditch promises to pay me enough to hire help."

Her smile illuminated her face. "Both David and I can use some extra hands," she said.

Rees looked at her. "I haven't been that terrible, have I?" He was embarrassed.

"You don't enjoy farming and make your feelings very clear."

Rees longed to reach out and touch her, but he didn't know if she would welcome it. He wanted her and prayed she wouldn't return to the Shakers, but he wasn't ready to propose marriage and anyway he didn't think she was ready to accept. He suspected she thought of her deceased Shaker lover every day. Well, he often thought of his former wife, Dolly.

"And I'll help you," she said now, gazing up at him with expectant eyes.

"Not this time," he said. No, he wouldn't allow that to happen here. Unlike in Zion, where she'd served as his assistant, in Dugard she knew no one. The excitement in her face drained away. Turning abruptly from her disappointment, he slipped his feet into his old shoes and clumped down the stairs, heading back to his interrupted chores.

No opportunity to speak to David presented itself until suppertime. Then, as Rees sat down to a meal of leftover chicken and a ragout of cucumbers, he took his chance. "I'll be ... in town ... for a time," he said. "You've heard me speak of Nate Bowditch. Well, he passed away and his wife asked me to look into the death."

"We're approaching a busy time," David said with an angry frown. "We've got the rest of the hay to bring in and both wheat and the corn. And then there'll be the oats and pumpkins...."

Rees took a moment to respond, holding his temper in check. He knew he would spend a long time making amends after abandoning his son to the rough care of his sister Caroline and her husband, Sam. "Mrs. Bowditch will pay me," he said. "We can hire some help. You've wanted to take a few hands on anyway."

"But that included you," David said, only slightly mollified.

"Of course he must go," Lydia said from her position by the hearth. "God gave him a gift for untangling such snarls. He must use that gift. And the victim was his friend."

David scowled at her.

"If there is even an unnatural death in this case," Rees said.

"Mr. Potter must be fairly certain, else he would not have driven all the way out here to ask such a favor of you," Lydia said, turning around to look at him. "And, if there isn't one, why, you'll be back in the fields all the sooner."

Rees tried to pretend that the thought of returning to farmwork did not depress him.

"David and I will gladly relinquish your company for a little while. Won't we, David?" Now she stared pointedly at Rees's unhappy son.

"I suppose," he said. He did not sound enthusiastic and he never looked at Lydia.

"It's just for a little while and then I'll be back," Rees said.

"Yes, and for how long, then? I know you'll pack up your wagon and leave as soon as spring arrives," David said.

Rees expelled a short impatient breath. "Weaving is how I make my living," he said. "Weaving brings cash to the farm." He never knew when David would explode. Not that Rees entirely blamed him, but sometimes it seemed the boy would never accept his father's apologies. And David, like Dolly, loved the farm, loved the work. He just couldn't believe his father would never settle to it. "And I've promised." Although he dreaded the prospect of uncovering all the secrets, large and small, of those he'd known since boyhood, he had to admit that the anticipation of escaping the farm's drudgery even for a little while excited him. "I'll ride out tomorrow," he said. "Speak to Mrs. Bowditch and take a look at the body." Nate's body. Rees suppressed a shiver.

David sighed. "Daniel Freeman asked if I had work," he said. "It's a large family; he could use some extra pennies."

"Does he have a sister?" Lydia asked, only half-joking.

David threw his father a quick look and said, "I believe so."

Rees, who didn't want anyone in the house observing his irregular relationship with Lydia, said firmly,. "Outside work first," he said. Her mouth drooped in disappointment. "Chores," Rees said, and fled.

Thunderstorms blew in during the night but did not diminish the unseasonable heat. Although the clouds continued to spit rain the next morning, Rees hitched Bessie to the wagon and set out for Dugard and the Bowditch farm west of town. The shops were opening as he passed through the village. A few men nodded to him. Rees did not recognize them and wondered if he'd known them as boys.

Once out of Dugard, he did not turn left down the dirt lane that led to the Bowditch homestead he recalled from his childhood. Instead he continued straight. According to Potter's notes, all the property visible from here belonged to Nate. Rees stared around in amazement, noting the lush fields of wheat, corn, and rye as well as pastures of cattle, horses, and sheep.

"Nate did very well for himself," Rees muttered. Not envious, exactly, as he did not want such responsibility. And the farmhouse! Far larger than the rough clapboard in which Nate had grown up, this structure was built of brick. A long low porch ran the length of the front, littered with discarded boots and a whip and stacks of baskets. The red barn lay across the road with stables and other outbuildings behind it, and Rees realized he'd driven up to the back. Rather than ride out and circle around to the front, he thumped up the steps and tapped upon the wooden door.

A thunderous deep-throated barking greeted his knock. Rees waited a few minutes. Finally, a black man flung open the door. A large brown mastiff leaped at Rees, barking. He held himself still, offering his hand for inspection.

"Leave him, Munch," the servant commanded. Munch sniffed but did not trot away. "Mr. Rees? I'm Marsh."

The black man stood as tall as Rees and they stared at each other eye to eye. Rees was so used to being the tallest man in a crowd that he found their equal height disconcerting. An apron spotted with dirty water and bright dye spots protected Marsh's nankeen breeches and waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled high above his elbows, and a strange bluish cast tinted the coppery brown of his hands and wrists. Since only a few strands of gray glittered in Marsh's curly black hair, Rees thought they were probably near the same age, mid-thirties.

"Mrs. Bowditch is expecting you," Marsh said. His precise phrasing, and the very faint singing cadence underneath, betrayed an accent that was still present despite all attempts to erase it. Probably Southern, Rees thought, although it was not a drawl he heard underneath the careful enunciation.

"Come in." Stepping aside, he motioned Rees through the door. Munch fell into step behind them, his nails clicking on the wooden floor.

Inside the house and out of the sun, the temperature dropped slightly. Rees looked around. The wooden floors, although frequently swept, were scuffed and worn. A hall ran across the width of the back, offering access to the rooms on left and right and to the narrow servants' stair that rose to the second level.

"You entered through the servants' door," Marsh said, taking off his apron and hanging it over the stair rail. Rees said nothing. Since when did farming folk have a servants' entrance?

They circled around to the east side, passing a small dining room with white walls and a scatter of silverware on a cloth over the table. Some of the cutlery glowed, polished to a shine, evidence of Marsh's recent activity. A door, propped open to catch any breeze, revealed stairs going down to the lower level. When they crossed to the front of the house, they entered elegance and wealth; polished wooden floors covered with Chinese carpets, a formal dining room painted in the fashionable emerald green, and a large front hall with wide curving stairs rising to the second floor.