Read Online A Marked Man by Barbara Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Hamilton
Ads: Link
changing rapidly to scudding fragments of gray racing in from the east and north. At the same moment the chimney sneezed out a quantity of gritty smoke. Abigail coughed and managed to say, “Yes, thank you, Lieutenant—I apologize for my ill temper. But Mr. Knox is a friend of mine, and I promise you, he would not harm a fly. I presume you’ve obtained Mr. Fluckner’s version of what Sir Jonathan was doing in Maine?”
“Speaking with Mr. Fluckner’s agent in Boothbay, I understand—a Mr. Bingham, who handles the timber shipping for several of the Great Proprietors. Bingham was the owner of a schooner called the Hetty , on which Sir Jonathan took passage from Boothbay Friday night, arriving at Hancock’s Wharf between ten thirty and eleven Saturday morning. When he came ashore, Sir Jonathan repaired immediately to the livery stable of a man named Brainert Howell, in Prince’s Street, and rented a saddle horse—”
“Rented?” Abigail’s eyebrows drew sharply together. “The Governor’s mansion lies less than a mile from Hancock’s Wharf. Had he not free use of his host’s stables?”
“He had indeed. Yet a man of his description was seen walking up Prince’s Street, and it was certainly the name of the man who rented Brainert Howell’s horse—an animal that was found, saddled and bridled, in the open fields of the Marlborough Street ward on Sunday morning, not long after the discovery of Sir Jonathan’s body. Sir Jonathan further arranged with Howell to have his trunk and portmanteau transported from the wharf to the Governor’s house, Sir Jonathan’s manservant not having gone to Maine with him on account of illness.”
“So in fact,” said Abigail, “we have no evidence as to what Sir Jonathan actually did in Maine or who he might have offended or enraged in the ten days preceding his murder. He could have attempted the virtue of every damsel in the Maritimes and run onto the Hetty between a gauntlet of outraged Mainers all shaking their fists at him and crying, I shall kill you like a dog— ”
“ ’ Tis not a conviction I’d like to try to get in court,” mused Thaxter, scribbling away in his memorandum-book.
“Possibly not,” Coldstone agreed. “Yet until you produce an eyewitness of the scene described who has provably no connection with either the Sons of Liberty or any of Boston’s less political smuggling rings, I fear that we are left with the facts as they stand and with no alternative to Mr. Wingate’s story. Mr. Knox’s young brother, I understand, has been in Cambridge this past week, only returning on Sunday—not that his testimony would serve to acquit Mr. Knox, unless they slept in the same room, and even then might not be believed.”
“Surely,” said Thaxter after a pause, “if Cottrell were assaulted and murdered a dozen yards from the Governor’s stables, someone would have heard an outcry? Or seen him lying there? How far from the stable gate was the body discovered?”
“About twenty feet from where Governor’s Alley ends in Rawson’s Lane,” said Coldstone. “Sir Jonathan lay facedown in frozen mud and had clearly been dead for many hours. His flesh was quite cold. Myself, I would have said that he died of the cold rather than of the beating. His extremities were nearly purple with it despite gloves and boots, and the abrasions on his face did not suggest blows hard enough to be fatal. Yet he had clearly been thrashed: a fate often incurred by men who attempt the virtue of other men’s sweethearts.”
“Thrashed, yes,” said Abigail softly. “Murdered—not so often. Even what could be construed as an attempt at rape is more likely to result in a man’s cork being drawn than his life ended—and it seems to me that Miss Fluckner herself took a hand in that.”
Coldstone’s seraph lips twitched in something perilously like a grin. “It’s true that I’ve seldom seen so comprehensive a ‘mouse,’ as the street-urchins call it. Yet a man
“Speaking with Mr. Fluckner’s agent in Boothbay, I understand—a Mr. Bingham, who handles the timber shipping for several of the Great Proprietors. Bingham was the owner of a schooner called the Hetty , on which Sir Jonathan took passage from Boothbay Friday night, arriving at Hancock’s Wharf between ten thirty and eleven Saturday morning. When he came ashore, Sir Jonathan repaired immediately to the livery stable of a man named Brainert Howell, in Prince’s Street, and rented a saddle horse—”
“Rented?” Abigail’s eyebrows drew sharply together. “The Governor’s mansion lies less than a mile from Hancock’s Wharf. Had he not free use of his host’s stables?”
“He had indeed. Yet a man of his description was seen walking up Prince’s Street, and it was certainly the name of the man who rented Brainert Howell’s horse—an animal that was found, saddled and bridled, in the open fields of the Marlborough Street ward on Sunday morning, not long after the discovery of Sir Jonathan’s body. Sir Jonathan further arranged with Howell to have his trunk and portmanteau transported from the wharf to the Governor’s house, Sir Jonathan’s manservant not having gone to Maine with him on account of illness.”
“So in fact,” said Abigail, “we have no evidence as to what Sir Jonathan actually did in Maine or who he might have offended or enraged in the ten days preceding his murder. He could have attempted the virtue of every damsel in the Maritimes and run onto the Hetty between a gauntlet of outraged Mainers all shaking their fists at him and crying, I shall kill you like a dog— ”
“ ’ Tis not a conviction I’d like to try to get in court,” mused Thaxter, scribbling away in his memorandum-book.
“Possibly not,” Coldstone agreed. “Yet until you produce an eyewitness of the scene described who has provably no connection with either the Sons of Liberty or any of Boston’s less political smuggling rings, I fear that we are left with the facts as they stand and with no alternative to Mr. Wingate’s story. Mr. Knox’s young brother, I understand, has been in Cambridge this past week, only returning on Sunday—not that his testimony would serve to acquit Mr. Knox, unless they slept in the same room, and even then might not be believed.”
“Surely,” said Thaxter after a pause, “if Cottrell were assaulted and murdered a dozen yards from the Governor’s stables, someone would have heard an outcry? Or seen him lying there? How far from the stable gate was the body discovered?”
“About twenty feet from where Governor’s Alley ends in Rawson’s Lane,” said Coldstone. “Sir Jonathan lay facedown in frozen mud and had clearly been dead for many hours. His flesh was quite cold. Myself, I would have said that he died of the cold rather than of the beating. His extremities were nearly purple with it despite gloves and boots, and the abrasions on his face did not suggest blows hard enough to be fatal. Yet he had clearly been thrashed: a fate often incurred by men who attempt the virtue of other men’s sweethearts.”
“Thrashed, yes,” said Abigail softly. “Murdered—not so often. Even what could be construed as an attempt at rape is more likely to result in a man’s cork being drawn than his life ended—and it seems to me that Miss Fluckner herself took a hand in that.”
Coldstone’s seraph lips twitched in something perilously like a grin. “It’s true that I’ve seldom seen so comprehensive a ‘mouse,’ as the street-urchins call it. Yet a man
Similar Books
