The Revelation of Louisa May (22 page)

Miss Whittaker didn't look nervous; rather, she stretched her arms and legs out like a cat and said, “When did he die?”

“Not long after your appointment with my father,” Louisa said.

Miss Whittaker raised a single eyebrow. “I was in the hotel by half past one. You know I was. You saw me when I returned.”

“You might have left and gone back,” Louisa said.

Miss Whittaker shook her head with an irritating grin. “That terrible maid who's always making such a noise with her singing came in and I had her try to clean the skirt. She was in and out of here for the next hour. Then I went
downstairs with a book to the lounge. At least five people saw me there.”

Louisa rubbed her temples, trying to work out the times. “If you knew you couldn't be connected to Finch's murder, why did you lie about seeing Father?”

“I have a soft spot for the foolish man.” She shot Louisa a conspiratorial look. “Bronson is terribly good-looking. And Finch was very trying. If Bronson shot him, he did me a favor. ”

“What do you mean?” Louisa turned to stare. “Why would Father kill Finch? He hadn't even met the man!”

Miss Whittaker's eyes opened wide, like an innocent child. “While we were nibbling on strawberries, I told him everything. He wasn't pleased with me, but I soon convinced him to forgive me. Then I told Bronson that Finch is a wanted man in Maryland. A delicious irony, don't you think, that a wanted man was chasing a fugitive? Bronson and I had a lovely earnest talk about it. But Bronson would certainly have informed the authorities. And from my experience with the man, I can tell you Finch would have taken exception to being arrested.”

“But how would Finch know that my father knew anything damaging about him?” Louisa asked.

Miss Whittaker's eyes widened even further and her lips curved into a reminiscent smile. “I told him, of course. On my way back to the hotel, I ran into him on the street. The problem with Concord is that there are so few streets. Anyway, I took great pleasure in telling him that not only would he not
get a penny from me, but that your father would happily put him in jail.”

Louisa felt a chill run down her spine. In a quiet voice that her sisters knew well and feared, she asked, “And did you know that Finch had a gun?”

Miss Whittaker shrugged.

“You are despicable,” Louisa spat. Without waiting for an answer, she said, “It wasn't enough to embroil the finest men in the country in your fraud: You sent a dangerous criminal after my father.”

Miss Whittaker rose to her feet in a languid movement, as though it was almost too much effort. She went to the door, clearly expecting Louisa to leave. “This conversation is beginning to bore me. Your father is fine.”

“He's in jail!” Louisa said, wanting to somehow pierce the woman's self-possession.

“Really?” Miss Whittaker said, her lovely eyes widening. “Well, he won't be there for long, will he? Unless he killed Finch . . . But even then, the town will probably give him a medal. Finch was a nasty man.”

“And so are his associates,” Louisa said, not bothering to disguise her disdain. She went through the door, and as though struck by an afterthought, she said, “I hope you're leaving town immediately.”

“It depends. With Finch gone, I might stay. Bronson still admires me; he won't want to tarnish my reputation.”

“You can count equally on me to do the opposite,” Louisa warned. “You forgot about the falsified invoice. I have it.”

Miss Whittaker went perfectly still, her eyes darting to the desk.

Louisa went on. “If you aren't out of town on the first train tomorrow, I'll bring it to Mr. Emerson. He won't hesitate to bring it to the authorities. Unlike my foolish father, Mr. Emerson isn't susceptible to your charms.”

Miss Whittaker sighed elegantly. “Well, I suppose I don't have a choice. Never mind; I have another project in Philadelphia.” As she waited to close the door behind Louisa, she said, “I don't often underestimate people, particularly women. Perhaps we'll meet again, Miss Alcott.”

The door shut with a bang. Louisa leaned against it and muttered, “Not if I have any choice in the matter.”

Louisa made her way downstairs and through the lobby, thinking furiously. Thanks to Miss Whittaker's candor, Louisa knew a lot more about what had happened and why. The more she learned, the more depressed she got. Unless Miss Whittaker had convinced several people to lie, she couldn't have killed Finch. Louisa crossed her off the rapidly shrinking list.

She stepped into the street. Across the way the Wright Tavern was overflowing with men drinking away the hard work of the day. Behind her the hotel restaurant was full, too.
All the shops and offices were shuttered for the night and the street was mostly quiet.

“Louisa!”

A voice behind her made her jump before she recognized Fred's voice. “Fred, don't frighten me like that,” she said tiredly. “I've had an excruciatingly long day.”

“Me, too,” he said sourly, reminding her that he had been at the jailhouse giving a statement.

“I'm sorry!” she exclaimed. “While I've been investigating, you've had a much more tedious time. How is Father?”

“The doctor thinks he's fine and made him go to bed. Bronson didn't even argue; he just wanted to sleep. The doctor is keeping an eye on him tonight.”

“I'm so glad to see you,” she said. Tucking her arm in his and turning toward home, she asked, “How did you find me?”

“I went back to Hillside. Beth told me where to find you.” With an exasperated sigh, he said, “You do realize how foolish it was to see Miss Whittaker alone, don't you?”

“Why wouldn't I?” Louisa asked, but recalling her fears about a gun, she didn't dare meet his eyes.

“She might be a killer, that's why!”

“She's not,” Louisa interrupted. “She was here at the hotel when Finch was shot. My list of suspects is getting shorter.”

“Damnation,” Fred said. “I thought she was a good prospect. This makes things look even worse.”

“For Father?” Louisa's stomach had a cold, hard knot whenever she thought about her father's role in the day's events.

“Bronson Alcott a murderer?” Fred exclaimed. “Louisa, you and your father have your differences, but you can't believe that of him. Besides, he was unconscious.”

“How can we be sure?” Louisa asked, tightening her grip on his arm.

“Because I saw him lying on the ground. Someone hit him on the head and then killed Finch. I'm sure of it.” His voice dropped. “And we both know who.”

“Not Henry!” Louisa almost wailed. “He wouldn't do such a thing, even if he was there.”

“Henry?” Fred looked baffled. “What are you talking about? Henry couldn't possibly have shot Finch.”

“But he was there,” Louisa said, miserable. “I found the horse he was carving in the clearing.”

Fred's eyebrows knitted as he considered this new information. “But Henry's in jail!”

Louisa stopped dead in the road and tugged on Fred's elbow so he swung around and looked her in the face. “Jail? He's been arrested? How could you not tell me?”

Fred started to laugh. “Yes, Henry's in jail. But not for murder! He's been arrested for not paying his taxes!”

“He hasn't paid for years,” Louisa said. “Until the war in Mexico is over, he says he won't let his tax dollars support it.
Nor the expansion of slavery into the Western territories. Are you saying that today, of all days, Sheriff Staples put him in jail?”

“Right after we left him this morning he had the bad luck to run into the sheriff. He's been locked up ever since, so Henry couldn't have been killing anyone.”

They were approaching Hillside and Fred led her into the garden rather than the house. He sat on a bench and gestured to her to take her place next to him.

“We should go in to Beth; she must be frantic,” Louisa said.

“I made sure she went to bed,” Fred said. “She looked feverish. This has been too much for her. So we can talk out here for a moment. You have to face the unpleasant truth.”

“Which one?” Louisa asked. She leaned against him, taking comfort in his sturdy shoulder.

She felt his body tense as he said in a hesitant voice, “There is only one man left who would kill Finch.”

“No, he wouldn't . . .” Louisa's voice trailed off. What did she really know about George?

Fred ticked off his arguments on his fingers. “George's motive is stronger than anyone else's. He's a big man who could have struck down your father and wrestled the gun away from Finch.”

“We don't even know he was there,” Louisa protested, but she couldn't help remembering that load of twisted wood.

“We do.” Fred's face was stern. “I was able to speak to Bronson alone. He told me that when he first recovered consciousness, he saw George running away from the clearing.”

“Oh, no,” Louisa moaned. “Did Father tell Sheriff Staples?”

“No. And he doesn't want us to, either. He said none of us could imagine the weight of slavery on a man's soul, and no one could be blamed for doing anything to avoid being recaptured.”

“But Father can't condone murder; it violates all his principles.”

“So does slavery,” Fred pointed out. “I think he's choosing the lesser of two evils. Besides, we don't know what happened. It might have been self-defense.”

“Then why did he hit Father first?” Louisa asked. “Only someone planning to kill Finch would do that.”

“Maybe not . . .” Fred started slowly, but his words sped up as he developed his theory. “Finch had a good reason to want your father incapacitated, or worse, to buy some time to get out of town. So Finch hit your father and George might have seen it. George would have defended Bronson. In the struggle, Finch's gun went off.” He took Louisa's hand. “It's understandable, but the law wouldn't make allowances. Right now Sheriff Staples is inclined to his theory that some stranger robbed and killed Finch. I say we let that story stand.”

“Even if he took a man's life?” Louisa asked, incredulous.

“But wasn't Finch trying to do the same? Even worse than death was the fate waiting for George if he returned to his owner. I'd call it self-defense and get a good night's sleep.” He stood up and held out his hand. She hesitated, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“If George doesn't come back we'll know.”

“He wouldn't abandon his children,” she said slowly.

“But he could find them in Canada once all the fuss dies down,” Fred pointed out. “Louisa, don't make things more difficult. If George killed Finch, he shouldn't have to suffer for it.”

Louisa grabbed Fred's hand and let him pull her to her feet. “I wish there was someone who felt sorry that Finch was dead. I know that I should be outraged that his life was taken from him, but really all I feel is relief,” she admitted.

Fred drew her close and encircled her with his arms. “Sometimes you have to choose between being a philosopher or a human being.” His hold was loose and she knew he would let her go if she asked. Instead, she pressed her cheek against his chest.

His arms tightened and his lips touched her hair. “I want to ask you something important,” he whispered.

“Not yet,” Louisa said. “I can't think about the future with all this swirling about us. When it's over, we can talk.”

“I'll hold you to that,” he warned. They stood together for a few minutes as the moon rose, bathing them in its pale light.

“Louisa,” Fred whispered.

“Yes?”

“This hair net you wear is perhaps the least romantic piece of clothing ever imagined.”

She burst out laughing, grateful for his levity. Gently shoving him aside, she walked toward the house. “Come in,” she said over her shoulder. “Tomorrow is soon enough to solve this mystery.”