Nobody's Secret (9 page)

“Nobody.” Emily stood up abruptly and walked out of the room.

Tell him night finished before we finished

“Emily, what are you scribbling in your little book?” Vinnie asked as she climbed into their bed.

“Never you mind,” Emily said from the window seat. It was just getting dark outside; soon the church bells would ring to warn all respectable citizens to be inside and ready for bed. This was often Emily’s only time to write in peace, even if she had to do it by candlelight. What would her family think if they saw the list of clues filling the pages of her precious notebook.

Uncle and Nephew—bound together by blood and secrets.

She had puzzled for hours over what had happened at the farmhouse. She couldn’t discount her one piece of solid evidence: Mr. Nobody had been carrying a fresh piece of honeycomb that he must have gotten at the farm. And Sam Wentworth’s behavior was undoubtedly suspicious.

Honey, shimmering with the taste of summer, sweeter than the irascible beekeeper.

Perhaps Henry, Mr. Wentworth’s nephew, had given the honeycomb to Mr. Nobody. His behavior and the words she had overheard were intriguing.

Another odd detail involved her father’s law clerk, Mr. Ripley. When he had heard the name Wentworth, he had behaved very strangely. And of course, she couldn’t forget that Mr. Nobody had asked her the way to the law offices of Edward Dickinson.

What connection did Mr. Nobody have with the Wentworths and her father’s office? Mr. Ripley wouldn’t tell her; she would have to discover it for herself. Luckily, she knew where her father kept the spare key to his office. All she had to do was wait until the household was quiet.

She snuffed out her candle and slipped into the bed next to Vinnie, who was already half asleep. Lying motionless, Emily listened to Vinnie’s deep regular breathing. When the darkness seemed thick enough to conceal her, she slid out of bed. She had placed a simple dress at hand, ready to pull on.

She picked up her boots and quietly let herself out of the room. The grandfather clock chimed midnight as she slipped down the stairs.

Emily went to her father’s desk and took his spare keys. Gusts of wind rattled the window.

The wind—tapped like a tired Man—.

Emily stopped and lit a candle. She pulled out her notebook and jotted down her thought
—
she wanted to think about that line some more.

A few minutes later, she was walking rapidly up the hill toward the Common, swinging a covered oil lamp. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she glanced over her shoulder. There was no one there. Not for the first time, Emily noticed that the knowledge that you were misbehaving played tricks on your mind.

She was surprised to see the windows of the Amherst House Hotel were brightly lit, and the noise of men laughing and talking spilled out onto the Common. From the sound of it, the tavern was doing a fine business on a Tuesday night.

Edward Dickinson’s law office was on the second floor of a brick building on the street adjacent to the hotel. Keeping to the shadows, she was grateful that the town had not yet lit the Common with gaslights. The darkness preserved her reputation. She cringed to think of her father’s reaction if he knew what she was doing. All the more reason to do it now before he came home.

Looking around carefully, Emily dug in her skirt pocket for the heavy iron key and opened the door. One last glance around to be sure she wasn’t seen, and she was inside the vestibule and climbing the stairs.

Emily unlocked the door and held the unshielded lantern high to take a good look at the main room. It was familiar to her, but in the dark it took on an eerie air.

Her father had a private office, but Mr. Ripley’s desk was out here, as were the files. Last summer when Mr. Ripley had been ill, Emily had helped her father with the filing for a month. She knew her father’s byzantine system backward and forward. Armed with the name “Wentworth,” she was sure she could find what she needed.

On the right were files related to litigation: cases that would go to court, both criminal and civil. Mr. Nobody had spoken of accounts that needed settling—perhaps he meant before a judge? She started there, with the
W
s. Nothing.

On the far wall was a cabinet in which wills were kept. These, she thought, had possibilities. Her persistence was rewarded with a thin folder marked Wentworth.

She brought it to Mr. Ripley’s desk and positioned the lamp so she could read. Her fingertips hovered above the folder—what would her father think of her looking at confidential files? She was invading Mr. Wentworth’s privacy in a way she herself would find intolerable. Then she recalled the dab of honey on her nose, and she opened the file.

The will didn’t belong to the beekeeper, Samuel Wentworth, at all. It was the last will and testament of another man: Jeremiah Wentworth, Deceased. She checked his date of birth; he had been an old man when he died. She remembered Mr. Nobody’s handkerchief marked “JW”—was there a link between him and Jeremiah, Deceased.

The will was dated seven years earlier and had been drafted by her father—she recognized his copperplate printing. The will was brief: If Jeremiah should die, he left small bequests to his brother, Sam, and to his sister, Violet Langston.

Sam Wentworth was the beekeeper. “Violet Langston,” Emily murmured. “Who lives on College Street, here in town.” She smiled to herself; Violet’s name opened up a new avenue of investigation.

The bulk of Jeremiah’s estate went to his son, James. There was a list of properties and investments that made Emily raise her eyebrows. Jeremiah had been a very rich man. According to his death certificate, he had died the previous Christmas.

The next page in the file was a codicil. Emily smiled, remembering how she had once asked her father what a “codicil” was—she had loved the round sound of the word. He had explained it was a document added to a will after it was written. She frowned; she knew it should always be attached to the will, not lying loose in the file.

This codicil was written in Mr. Ripley’s hand, which was not nearly as elegant as her father’s. It amended the will to eliminate James as the primary heir because he had died before his father. It was dated the previous November, just after Thanksgiving.

Without James to inherit, the money went to Jeremiah’s brother, Sam, and his sister, Violet. Emily wondered why Sam’s house was so dilapidated if he had inherited half of a huge fortune.

She rifled through the remaining papers and found only some correspondence and a copy of the application to have the will probated. She knew her father was conscientious to a fault—so where was the death certificate for the son, James.

“Who’s here?” The door slammed open. A voice from the doorway was like a clap of thunder. Emily closed the file and shoved it back in the drawer.

“I have a shotgun! I’ll shoot!” The voice wasn’t quite as bold as the words, but Emily thought she recognized it. She hastily lifted the lantern to show her face. “Mr. Ripley, is that you?” she asked. The light quivered in her trembling hand.

“Miss Emily?” Mr. Ripley stepped into the office, still aiming the shotgun in her direction. “What are you doing here?

“I can explain,” Emily said. She backed away and moved behind his desk. She opened her mouth, but her usual facile explanations deserted her. How could she possibly explain her presence?

“What are you doing here?” he repeated, coming close enough so that she could smell whiskey on his breath.

“Perhaps you might put the weapon away,” Emily said. She kept her eyes on the shotgun until Mr. Ripley, looking slightly shamefaced, broke open the barrel and laid the gun safely on the table. “Thank you.”

A thought occurred to her. “Where did that gun come from?”

“I keep this locked in the outside closet,” he said. “But why are you here?”

With a sinking stomach, she realized that Mr. Ripley was bound to tell her father everything. Her only option was to take the offensive. “What are you doing out so late at night? My father prefers his clerks to be sober. I’m sure he would not approve of you carousing.”

Mr. Ripley took a step backward. “Miss Emily, I assure you my habits are regular indeed. Tonight I was celebrating a special occasion. . . . I am engaged to be married.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Ripley,” Emily said. “Who is the fortunate lady?”

But the clerk would not be deflected. “I must insist you tell me why you are here. Has Mr. Dickinson returned?” He glanced toward his employer’s dark office.

A third voice startled both of them. “I can explain.” Emily and Mr. Ripley turned with astonishment to the doorway to see Vinnie. She was wrapped in her mother’s shawl and clutching a lantern.

“Miss Lavinia!”

“Vinnie, what are you doing here?”

Vinnie hurried over to Emily and embraced her. “It’s all right now, dear sister. I’m here to bring you home.” She turned to Mr. Ripley and spoke in a confidential voice, as though Emily were not in the room at all. “She has these turns.”

Emily stiffened, but her sister squeezed her shoulders in warning.

“Turns?” Mr. Ripley repeated.

“She gets obsessed. Last year it was my mother’s recipes. Emily could be found at all hours sorting through them—to no purpose, mind you—just for the sake of touching each one, over and over again. Tonight she began talking about Father’s papers in just the same way.”

Mortified, Emily stared down at Mr. Ripley’s desk. Her attention was distracted from Vinnie’s nonsense by the blotting pad. She could make out the word Wentworth, reversed on the blotting paper, but legible nonetheless. What had Mr. Ripley been writing recently that involved the Wentworths?

Vinnie was still prattling. “When I saw that she had Father’s keys, I suspected she might come here—so I followed her.” She gestured to her cloth shoes, so much less suitable for walking than Emily’s sensible boots. “But she walks much faster than I.”

“I had no idea,” Mr. Ripley said. “Although now that I think on it, she often says very odd things.”

Emily straightened and was about to speak her mind when she was forestalled by Vinnie.

“I’m sure you can appreciate that we like to keep Emily’s little problem within the family circle. Can I depend on you not to mention this? Not even to Father—he worries so.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Ripley said. “You may count on my discretion.”

“Thank you!” Vinnie beamed.

“Would you like me to help you bring her home?” Mr. Ripley asked.

Vinnie shook her head. “Now that the mania has left her, I’ll have no trouble with her.”

Emily glared at her sister, but Vinnie ignored her.

“I’ll lock up for you,” Mr. Ripley said.

“And I’ll return Father’s key to its rightful place. Mr. Ripley, I can’t thank you enough.” While Vinnie was talking, Emily stealthily stuffed the blotting paper in her pocket.

“Good night, Misses Dickinson.”

Emily let Vinnie lead her quickly out of the office, down the stairs, and past the Common. “Vinnie!” she panted, trying to catch her breath. “I can’t believe you said those things. Next you’ll have me committed to an asylum.”

Vinnie stopped in the middle of North Pleasant Street, now illuminated by a thin crescent of moon and brilliant stars. “Emily, what did you want me to say? He caught you snooping in Father’s papers.” She lifted her thick braid of hair to cool her face and neck. “I thought I was quite clever. He feels as though we’ve confided in him—and you know how virtuous he is. He’ll never tell anyone.”

“He might tell his fiancée,” Emily pointed out, unwilling to give Vinnie the satisfaction of having rescued her.

“Fiancée?” Vinnie was easily diverted. “How can Mr. Ripley afford to get married? Father always said he was poor as a church mouse.”

“Perhaps he came into money recently?” Emily dangled the question in front of Vinnie like an apple in front of their horse, Jasper.

Vinnie shook her head violently. “Emily, you are doing it again. Trying to distract me. What does it matter if Mr. Ripley is getting married? What were you really doing in Father’s office?

“I take these turns . . . sometimes I can’t help myself,” Emily replied in an arch voice.