ill-use the servants in Mr. Fluckner’s house. Did he ever attempt liberties with a woman named Bathsheba? A young woman, light-skinned, with two children—”
Harry made a face. “Lord, poor Sheba! At least Philomela could stick close to Lucy. The man could scarcely steal kisses from the maid with her mistress looking on. Bathsheba is a sewing maid, m’am, and often by herself—has anything been heard of her?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Abigail. “I find it odd that she would leave her children behind her—odder still, that she would choose to disappear after Sir Jonathan left for Maine. I’m rather curious to know why.”
Five
I take it,” remarked Abigail, as Lieutenant Coldstone poured out coffee for herself and Thaxter in the cramped cubbyhole of his office, “you think as little as I do of this business of, I happened to find his scarf in the lane ?” The office wasn’t appreciably warmer than it had been an hour ago, and neither Lieutenant Stevenson nor Lieutenant Barclay appeared to have refilled the wood-basket before departing, but after Harry’s cell, the dank little chamber seemed a paradise of comfort. Abigail perched on Lieutenant Barclay’s high desk-stool, and set her cup among the account-books he had left behind him.
“Regrettably,” returned Coldstone, “what I think has no bearing on the matter. My apologies that I have no milk to offer you, m’am, and only muscovado sugar. Sugar of any sort is most difficult to obtain.”
“I can recommend you a very good smuggler to obtain as much of it as you’d care to use, straight from the West Indies,” offered Abigail, and tonged a small lump of the sticky brown substance into her cup. “I’ve always considered it a shocking waste of energy, to ship it to England and then trans-ship it back here, only so that the King’s friends can make money off transport fees and import duties.”
“I have, of course, no opinion on the subject,” responded Coldstone politely. “Yet I would be pleased to have your sugar-purveyor’s name.”
“Frederick North, wasn’t it, Thaxter?” Abigail named the Chancellor of the King’s Exchequer who was responsible for the tea-tax and much of the Crown’s fiscal policy toward the colonies. “Something like that. Surely Colonel Leslie can’t believe that a clerk who owes the whole of his living to a wealthy merchant isn’t going to tell whatever lie his master instructs him to? Or is there some other reason that Colonel Leslie would like to send Mr. Knox to Halifax and put a rope around his neck?”
Her glance crossed the young officer’s, and he nodded, not pretending that he didn’t understand what she meant. “Naturally, should Mr. Knox feel moved to turn King’s Evidence against whomever he can think of in Boston who might be connected with the Sons of Liberty—or with John Hancock’s smuggling operation, which in Colonel Leslie’s eyes amounts to the same thing—it would affect the verdict of the Tribunal. Colonel Leslie is not being arbitrary in this matter, m’am. Mr. Knox is a known associate of men believed to be involved with traitors; information concerning traitors is what Sir Jonathan came to the colony to obtain.”
“Why don’t you just arrest my husband, then, or Sam Adams, or Mr. Hancock, and put a pistol to their heads, if you think you’ll get information under threat of death?”
“Because neither your husband, nor Sam Adams, nor John Hancock was so unwise as to shout I will kill you like a dog to a man who subsequently was found dead. Would you like to hear details of Sir Jonathan’s arrival Saturday morning, insofar as we have been able to ascertain them? I fear that the day is turning blustery, and would not wish to detain you longer than is necessary.”
As if on cue, wind snarled in the chimney, and Abigail, glancing swiftly at the chamber’s small window, saw to her dismay that the bars of cloud visible that morning in the eastern sky were
Harry made a face. “Lord, poor Sheba! At least Philomela could stick close to Lucy. The man could scarcely steal kisses from the maid with her mistress looking on. Bathsheba is a sewing maid, m’am, and often by herself—has anything been heard of her?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Abigail. “I find it odd that she would leave her children behind her—odder still, that she would choose to disappear after Sir Jonathan left for Maine. I’m rather curious to know why.”
Five
I take it,” remarked Abigail, as Lieutenant Coldstone poured out coffee for herself and Thaxter in the cramped cubbyhole of his office, “you think as little as I do of this business of, I happened to find his scarf in the lane ?” The office wasn’t appreciably warmer than it had been an hour ago, and neither Lieutenant Stevenson nor Lieutenant Barclay appeared to have refilled the wood-basket before departing, but after Harry’s cell, the dank little chamber seemed a paradise of comfort. Abigail perched on Lieutenant Barclay’s high desk-stool, and set her cup among the account-books he had left behind him.
“Regrettably,” returned Coldstone, “what I think has no bearing on the matter. My apologies that I have no milk to offer you, m’am, and only muscovado sugar. Sugar of any sort is most difficult to obtain.”
“I can recommend you a very good smuggler to obtain as much of it as you’d care to use, straight from the West Indies,” offered Abigail, and tonged a small lump of the sticky brown substance into her cup. “I’ve always considered it a shocking waste of energy, to ship it to England and then trans-ship it back here, only so that the King’s friends can make money off transport fees and import duties.”
“I have, of course, no opinion on the subject,” responded Coldstone politely. “Yet I would be pleased to have your sugar-purveyor’s name.”
“Frederick North, wasn’t it, Thaxter?” Abigail named the Chancellor of the King’s Exchequer who was responsible for the tea-tax and much of the Crown’s fiscal policy toward the colonies. “Something like that. Surely Colonel Leslie can’t believe that a clerk who owes the whole of his living to a wealthy merchant isn’t going to tell whatever lie his master instructs him to? Or is there some other reason that Colonel Leslie would like to send Mr. Knox to Halifax and put a rope around his neck?”
Her glance crossed the young officer’s, and he nodded, not pretending that he didn’t understand what she meant. “Naturally, should Mr. Knox feel moved to turn King’s Evidence against whomever he can think of in Boston who might be connected with the Sons of Liberty—or with John Hancock’s smuggling operation, which in Colonel Leslie’s eyes amounts to the same thing—it would affect the verdict of the Tribunal. Colonel Leslie is not being arbitrary in this matter, m’am. Mr. Knox is a known associate of men believed to be involved with traitors; information concerning traitors is what Sir Jonathan came to the colony to obtain.”
“Why don’t you just arrest my husband, then, or Sam Adams, or Mr. Hancock, and put a pistol to their heads, if you think you’ll get information under threat of death?”
“Because neither your husband, nor Sam Adams, nor John Hancock was so unwise as to shout I will kill you like a dog to a man who subsequently was found dead. Would you like to hear details of Sir Jonathan’s arrival Saturday morning, insofar as we have been able to ascertain them? I fear that the day is turning blustery, and would not wish to detain you longer than is necessary.”
As if on cue, wind snarled in the chimney, and Abigail, glancing swiftly at the chamber’s small window, saw to her dismay that the bars of cloud visible that morning in the eastern sky were
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