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Authors: Barbara Hamilton
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and no one could say what had happened to Mrs. Malvern or where she might be. I have been seeking word of her.”
“In preference to a reunion with your husband?”
“My dear Lieutenant,” said John, with a half grin that did not reach his eyes, “Mrs. Adams is the original Eve for curiosity. She knew where she would be able to locate me, when she needed me.”
Past the Lieutenant’s shoulder, Abigail saw a man cross the window on the outside, a distorted shape in the uneven diamonds of glass. The fourth or fifth to do so, she thought, in five minutes—unusual for Queen Street at this time of a weekday morning.
“As I have told you already,” John went on, “I spent last night at Purley’s Tavern in Salem, my horse having strained a fetlock a number of miles from the ferry—”
“You could tell me you spent last night in Constantin ople, and be away from Boston by the time I’d sent Sergeant Muldoon there to check your story.”
“You can certainly send Sergeant Muldoon to check with the ferryman as to the time I crossed this morning.”
“As a lawyer, Mr. Adams—and the cousin of the man who heads up the Sons of Liberty—you know quite well that there are other ways into this city than the Winnisimmet Ferry or the gate at the Neck . . . and other ways that a man might have to do with a woman’s death, than wielding the knife himself. I—and Colonel Leslie—would prefer to have you where we know we can lay our hands on you.”
With a shock Abigail realized that Johnny had not been exaggerating. The Provost Marshal’s man was, indeed, here to arrest John—for the murder.
Cold panic flooded her, then hot rage. Seditious the Crown might well call him—as it called all its enemies. But that anyone would even consider for an instant that he had had or could have had anything to do with a crime of that nature left her breathless. She glanced at the window again, and though the flawed glass made it difficult to make out details, she saw that there definitely were at least five men, loitering in the street in front of the house.
She said, “Surely, Lieutenant,” in her most reasonable voice, “if your commander simply wishes Mr. Adams to be available for further questioning, would not a bond serve as well?” She tucked her hands beneath her apron, mostly to keep the officer from seeing them ball into unwomanly fists. “We are simple folk, and not so wealthy that my husband can afford to flee and leave thirty pounds in your hands—I believe thirty pounds is the usual bond for good conduct? Unless you would rather take our firstborn son, but I really wouldn’t want to do that to whoever would have to look after him.”
Outside, a child shouted something, and a man’s voice reproved: “Hush, there, Shimmi, we’re not here to make trouble . . .”
And the voice of the guard, “And what are you here for, then, Rebel?”
Coldstone, interrupted in the midst of his reply, frowned. As he walked to the window John stepped closer to Abigail’s side, stage-whispered, “You’d price Johnny at thirty pounds?”
She shrugged, never taking her eyes from the officer’s crimson back as he angled his head to look through the thick panes into the street. “We’ve two other sons.”
Coldstone looked back sharply over his shoulder at them, narrow face expressionless. Then he stalked to the table, where his sabertache lay, and from it withdrew a sheet of paper. Abigail helpfully fetched her writing box from where it lay on a corner of the mantelpiece, and set it before him. The officer regarded her in hostile silence, then took the quill she offered him, studied the point critically, adjusted it with his penknife, and wrote:
Mr. John Adams, lawyer, of Queen Street, Boston, is hereby summoned to appear before the Provost Marshal of His Majesty’s forces at Castle William on Friday, 25 November 1773 at noon to post bond for his good conduct in the matter of the murder of Mrs. Richard Pentyre of this
“In preference to a reunion with your husband?”
“My dear Lieutenant,” said John, with a half grin that did not reach his eyes, “Mrs. Adams is the original Eve for curiosity. She knew where she would be able to locate me, when she needed me.”
Past the Lieutenant’s shoulder, Abigail saw a man cross the window on the outside, a distorted shape in the uneven diamonds of glass. The fourth or fifth to do so, she thought, in five minutes—unusual for Queen Street at this time of a weekday morning.
“As I have told you already,” John went on, “I spent last night at Purley’s Tavern in Salem, my horse having strained a fetlock a number of miles from the ferry—”
“You could tell me you spent last night in Constantin ople, and be away from Boston by the time I’d sent Sergeant Muldoon there to check your story.”
“You can certainly send Sergeant Muldoon to check with the ferryman as to the time I crossed this morning.”
“As a lawyer, Mr. Adams—and the cousin of the man who heads up the Sons of Liberty—you know quite well that there are other ways into this city than the Winnisimmet Ferry or the gate at the Neck . . . and other ways that a man might have to do with a woman’s death, than wielding the knife himself. I—and Colonel Leslie—would prefer to have you where we know we can lay our hands on you.”
With a shock Abigail realized that Johnny had not been exaggerating. The Provost Marshal’s man was, indeed, here to arrest John—for the murder.
Cold panic flooded her, then hot rage. Seditious the Crown might well call him—as it called all its enemies. But that anyone would even consider for an instant that he had had or could have had anything to do with a crime of that nature left her breathless. She glanced at the window again, and though the flawed glass made it difficult to make out details, she saw that there definitely were at least five men, loitering in the street in front of the house.
She said, “Surely, Lieutenant,” in her most reasonable voice, “if your commander simply wishes Mr. Adams to be available for further questioning, would not a bond serve as well?” She tucked her hands beneath her apron, mostly to keep the officer from seeing them ball into unwomanly fists. “We are simple folk, and not so wealthy that my husband can afford to flee and leave thirty pounds in your hands—I believe thirty pounds is the usual bond for good conduct? Unless you would rather take our firstborn son, but I really wouldn’t want to do that to whoever would have to look after him.”
Outside, a child shouted something, and a man’s voice reproved: “Hush, there, Shimmi, we’re not here to make trouble . . .”
And the voice of the guard, “And what are you here for, then, Rebel?”
Coldstone, interrupted in the midst of his reply, frowned. As he walked to the window John stepped closer to Abigail’s side, stage-whispered, “You’d price Johnny at thirty pounds?”
She shrugged, never taking her eyes from the officer’s crimson back as he angled his head to look through the thick panes into the street. “We’ve two other sons.”
Coldstone looked back sharply over his shoulder at them, narrow face expressionless. Then he stalked to the table, where his sabertache lay, and from it withdrew a sheet of paper. Abigail helpfully fetched her writing box from where it lay on a corner of the mantelpiece, and set it before him. The officer regarded her in hostile silence, then took the quill she offered him, studied the point critically, adjusted it with his penknife, and wrote:
Mr. John Adams, lawyer, of Queen Street, Boston, is hereby summoned to appear before the Provost Marshal of His Majesty’s forces at Castle William on Friday, 25 November 1773 at noon to post bond for his good conduct in the matter of the murder of Mrs. Richard Pentyre of this
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