A Death in Utopia Page 8

  "Step inside then and I'll see whether he wants to speak to you," she said, opening the door just wide enough for him to squeeze through.

  She soon came back and without saying anything beckoned him to follow her. The room she led him to had rows of bookshelves around the walls and a large fire blazing in the fireplace. A white-haired man wearing a black velvet morning jacket and a tasseled cap was seated in a dark green wingback chair so large that it dwarfed his shrunken body. He was thin and looked rather frail, but his gray eyes were sharp. Daniel stood awkwardly in front of him.

  "What do you have to tell me?" Reverend Hopewell asked in a clear authoritative voice.

  "I have discovered that a man to whom you lent money, a man who recently escaped from debtor's jail, was hiding just across the road from Brook Farm when your son was there. I thought you should know that this fugitive, who might have had some reason for quarreling with your family, possibly even threatening them, was close by when your son was attacked."

  For a long minute the man said nothing. Then he gestured to Daniel, "Sit down, sit down" waving him to the wingback chair on the other side of the fireplace. "Tell me who you are and what you know about my son."

  Daniel introduced himself and continued his story, "His name is Roger Platt. I believe you signed a complaint against him for unpaid debts. His brother Abner's farm is just across the road from Brook Farm. I believe he has been hiding at his brother's place. Perhaps when he heard your son was visiting Brook Farm his anger at you was transferred to your family. When he saw your son taking a walk that morning, he could have gone over to ask him to intercede with you to give him more time to pay his debt. If your son quarreled with him that could have led to the terrible attack."

  "You have that story half right, young man. He did see my son at Brook Farm and he did ask for help with the debt, but there was no quarrel. No need for a struggle." The old man leaned one elbow on the arm of his chair and bent his head to his hand. His shoulders shook with silent sobs for a moment, but he soon controlled himself and continued.

  "My son was a very generous man. Far more generous than I am, I'm afraid. When he heard Roger Platt's story, he wrote to our lawyer and paid the debt with his own money. By the time I heard about it my son was already..." his voice wavered, "my son was gone. It was only two days ago I informed the sheriff that the charges should be dropped."

  Daniel was left speechless. "Your son certainly was a very generous man," he finally said to the grieving father. "You must have been very proud of him."

  "I was proud of him, although I seldom told him so. I chided him for being frivolous and not marrying a sensible woman. He was too flattered by the idle matrons in his congregation, women who had husbands and children they should have attended to instead of trifling with the time of their minister."

  Thomas Hopewell continued talking, scarcely looking at Daniel, as though it was a relief to pour out his thoughts, "He paid little attention to some very suitable young women, any one of whom would have made him a good wife and borne him children to inherit his gifts and his name. The only young woman he ever seemed to care about was that young Quaker girl years ago, but of course he could not marry a Quaker. We quarreled over that.

  "We quarreled over many things and I was often angry with him. But I should have told him how proud I was of all the good he did despite his faults. He was planning to invest money in George Ripley's community. That must have been the money he used to pay Roger Platt's debt."

  The old man fell silent, and when he spoke again his voice was very soft and sounded less certain than it had. "God has been hard on me. He took my wife and daughter. Winslow was all I had left and now he is gone too. But we must bear God's will patiently. He tests us only for our own good." The Reverend Hopewell's voice grew stronger as he spoke. He would survive his pain to give many more sermons to his flock.

  Night had fallen when Daniel left the house. He felt far less certain about anything than he had when he went there. He had been sure that he had solved the mystery of Winslow Hopewell's death. Now he was certain of nothing.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Abigail Has a Holiday

  October 23, 1842.

  Sunday brought a bright, crisp day that tempted everyone outdoors. Pumpkins were ripening in the vegetable patch and the younger Brook Farmers were determined to decorate them and celebrate Halloween. George Ripley didn't altogether approve of such a heathenish holiday, but he did not forbid the frolicking.

  Although the students planned the festival, many adults quickly joined in. John Dwight promised to play his flute for dancing in the pine grove. After Sunday dinner Fred and Lloyd invited everyone in the dining room to walk out to the pine grove and share an afternoon dance and picnic. Costumes would be welcome but were not necessary. Timothy begged his mother to share in the fun. There seemed no harm in it even though Abigail was sure her Quaker ancestors would have been shocked if they had known she allowed her son to take part in such a pagan rite. She breathed an apology to them as she prepared to enjoy the holiday.

  Ever since Winslow had died in the midst of trees Abigail had been reluctant to walk among any trees. He had been at some distance from the pine grove, but the sight of the dark pine trees in the woods recalled him to mind. She struggled against the feeling, knowing that grieving too long was a sin, and that she should welcome the happiness to be found in God's world and its beauties. It was time for joy to return to Brook Farm, especially for the sake of the children. But joy was hard to find at Brook Farm right now, Abigail thought. She shivered as she looked around the woods and thought about how someone had intruded on their peaceful pleasures and brought such misery. Perhaps some of the evil spirits of Halloween really did haunt these woods.

  Charlotte, Ellen and Abigail joined the procession walking to the grove. Some of the girls had woven autumn leaves into their hair, although there were few of the colorful leaves left. Ellen had found Queen Anne's Lace and made a little nosegay of it for her dress; it gleamed, white and lacy against the dark blue fabric.

  Even Mrs. Geary came along, looking more cheerful than she usually did. She seldom joined in festivities, but Halloween was an Irish holiday that recalled memories of her youth. She was going to help the children pick pumpkins and carve them into faces. As they walked she told the others that she usually made colcannon for Halloween dinner, a mixture of mashed potatoes and cabbage. She said mischievously, "The most important part of it is to bury a coin in the bowl. Whoever gets the coin in his portion is destined to have a prosperous year ahead."

  "Not too many of us have found that coin, it seems," said Ellen. "When was the last time any Irishman was prosperous?"

  Her mother sighed and remarked, "We take what the Lord gives us and make the best of it."

  Soon the sound of music from the grove cheered everyone. Some of the boys were singing a popular college song:

  We'll sing tonight with hearts as light

  And joys as gay and fleeting

  As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim

  And break on the lips at meeting.

  John Dwight had gathered some of his students to form a choir and sing ballads as they sat on the rocks or on the bed of pine needles on the ground. One of the students took out a fiddle and began to play dance music. Even Timothy wanted to join in that, so Abigail took him by the hands and led him in a whirl around the grove to the strains of "Bonny Lassey". For the first time in weeks everyone was smiling and enjoying themselves. Red-headed Fred was trying to follow Ellen who was showing him how to dance an Irish jig. Poor Fred screwed his forehead in concentration while Ellen's feet moved so fast he could scarcely follow her steps.

  When Timothy grew tired of dancing and moved off to collect pine cones with Johnny Parsons. Abigail sat down on a rock next to Fanny Gray. Even Fanny was not looking cross today. Abigail asked her whether she was enjoying the sunny weather.

  "Oh, indeed I am enjoying it," she answered. "This morning I walked over to Dedham
to hear Theodore Parker's sermon. He talked about the evil of slavery in the South and how all Christians should resist efforts to allow it to spread. He fortified my spirit with his brave ideas."

  "I agree that we must end the evil of slavery, but the slave states are so far away from us. Men can make speeches and vote to change the laws, but what can we women do about the evil of slavery?"

  Fanny leaned toward her and spoke in a soft voice as she replied, "Don't you understand there are activities going on right under our noses?" She leaned so close Abigail could smell cinnamon on her breath, and her eyes looked huge. "My friend Tabitha has told me about many things that are going on in Massachusetts, some of them as close as Boston. There are escape routes from the South that lead straight through this area. Many runaways travel by ship to Boston and then follow the rivers north to Montreal. There are safe houses along the way where they can shelter."

  Abigail had heard nothing of this in Massachusetts. In Philadelphia she had overheard talk about runaway slaves among the Quakers. Some of them had felt the call to work with the Underground Railway and help slaves flee cruel masters in the South. Boston seemed far away from that, although the newspapers were filled with arguments being made about new laws for the new states.

  "That must be dangerous," Abigail finally said. Even to herself she sounded like a coward as she said it.

  Fanny drew back and looked at her sternly. "Of course it is dangerous, but sometimes we have to accept danger. We have to be strong and willing to raise our hands against people who are doing evil." Her face was becoming quite red with the strength of her emotion.

  The wind was getting quite chilly and when Sophia Ripley suggested they start walking back to the Hive, Abigail was happy to go. Charlotte joined them and they slowly meandered back through the wood and across the brown meadow toward the building.

  Sophia Ripley talked about Winslow. "He was such a promising young man," she said. "Do you know that he was being considered for a call to become the chief minister at the First Unitarian Church in Salem? He spoke to me about that once."

  "It would have been a great honor for him," Abigail said. He had not mentioned that to her. So many dreams had died that day. "Salem would have been a perfect opportunity for him."

  "Yes," agreed Sophia, "but he was troubled by something. He talked to me one evening about whether I thought a man should reveal all of his sins, every shameful deed he had ever done, to the congregation before he accepted a new pulpit."

  "Did Reverend Hopewell have any shameful secrets?" asked Fanny doubtfully. "He was a respected clergyman just as his father is. No one ever suggested he had shameful secrets, although he was not always a man to keep his promises. I don't believe he even thought that was shameful."

  "Do you mean his promise to invest in our Community?" Sophia asked gently. "Surely he was not speaking of that. That is a business affair, which he discussed with my husband. He would not have talked to me about money matters."

  "Well, I don't understand what else he could have been ashamed of," Fanny persisted, frowning now.

  Abigail was busy trying to understand what Winslow could have meant. Did he think it had been a sin for the two of them to have a Quaker wedding? Could he have meant he was ashamed of having denied the wedding afterward? But Sophia had more to say.

  "He mentioned that some people liked to reveal the private affairs of others and that it would be terrible for a minister if anyone decided to uncover all the mistakes of youth. He said he regretted some of his youthful actions, but he never told me more than that."

  Charlotte pondered this. "It sounds as though he was afraid of having his secret revealed. Perhaps it wasn't that he felt guilty, but more that he was afraid of someone who knew his secret."

  Sophia Ripley frowned incredulously, "Do you mean that someone was threatening him? Surely Reverend Hopewell was not afraid of blackmail!"

  Blackmail was such an ugly word. It was not a word any of them would connect with Winslow Hopewell. Surely no one would dare to threaten him. No one had any answer for Sophia, so the four of them continued walking to the Hive in silence.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Daniel Asks Questions

  October 24, 1842.

  The conversation with Thomas Hopewell left Daniel discouraged. He had been certain Roger Platt must be the killer. Writing the story as an exclusive for the Transcript would most likely get him a permanent job with the newspaper. He could almost hear Mr. Cabot's congratulations, and he smiled to think that Charlotte would look at him with a bit more respect. It would be a pleasure to impress a clever girl like Charlotte Edgerton. Instead he found himself walking back to the boarding house in the dark on a cold, rainy night no further ahead than he'd been the night before.

  He stopped in a tavern for a plate of fried kidneys and a pint of ale, but they didn't help much. If the Platts had no reason to kill Winslow Hopewell, who would have? He was a respected man, a preacher and a friend of the Ripleys. His watch and his money weren't stolen. It made no sense. Hopewell wasn't a fighting man or a political man as far as Daniel knew. Who could have hated him enough to kill him? With a sigh Daniel turned toward his boarding house. By the time he got there the door was locked and Mrs. Costello grumbled when she opened it. "I keep a respectable house, young man. If you want to spend your nights drinking you can find another landlady."

  "Sure I'd never find one as lovely as you," Daniel answered, trying to smooth her furrowed brow. "You remind me of my sainted grandmother in heaven. You wouldn't want to turn me away from my better angels, would you?" That made her smile and he ran upstairs before she could say anything else.

  On Sunday morning Daniel went to mass hoping to run into Rory O'Connor. Could Rory tell him anything more about what had happened that morning? Well, wherever Rory was, he wasn't in church. Daniel plodded back to the boarding house for breakfast and spent most of the afternoon reading the books he had borrowed from Miss Peabody's bookstore. Questions about Winslow's death nagged at him. Who could have wanted him dead? Who could have been lurking around Brook Farm? Could it have been an accident? But there were no answers.

  On Monday morning Daniel made up his mind to talk to the sheriff again. Maybe there were leads that were being followed. When he got to the Court House, Sheriff Grover was in his office and the same clerk in the same black suit was sitting in a corner copying documents. The sheriff recognized Daniel, but he didn't look very happy about it.

  "You're that reporter from the Transcript, eh? What do you want this time? Have you found another body? Or have those folks at Brook Farm gotten into some other kind of mischief?"

  "Nothing like that, sir. I was just wondering whether the investigation into Reverend Hopewell's murder was still going on. Perhaps you already know who the culprit is? The citizens of Boston would like to know that such an evildoer had been captured."

  "We are not miracle workers. We can't solve crimes when there are no clues and no criminals in the neighborhood to question. Perhaps Winslow Hopewell fell and hit his head. Likely it was a death by misadventure. That's the verdict I will recommend to the coroner when he holds a hearing on the matter."

  That decision startled Daniel and he protested. "How do you explain the mark of a blow on his forehead?" he asked.

  "He could have fallen on a rock or a hoe or rake. Perhaps he was carrying one. At any rate I am not going to keep bothering those good people at Brook Farm and I certainly don't want to cause a scandal for the Reverend Thomas Hopewell. The Hopewells are one of the leading families of the county, of the entire Commonwealth of Massachusetts."

  Daniel could see the way the land lay. No official in Boston was going to cause a scandal to one of the leading families no matter how many crimes were committed. But he wasn't satisfied to stand by and see the murder denied that way. A man should be allowed to live out his life and from what Thomas Hopewell had told him, it seemed that Winslow was a man whose life was doing some good in the world. Wasn't America supposed to be a l
and of justice? Keeping the gentry out of trouble was acting like the corrupt officials in Ireland. It wasn't supposed to happen in this new country. No use saying that to the sheriff though.

  Time for another trip to Brook Farm. That's where the crime had happened, so that must be the place that held the answer. Daniel had to find a solution. He wasn't fooling himself that it was all for lofty ideas about justice either. Solving the mystery would be the key to a new job and a place of importance in the city. He had spent enough years scrabbling around to make a living. It was time to have a suitable place in the world and maybe settle down.

  The weather had changed again; gray rainclouds were gathering along the Western horizon and a sharp wind was blowing them in fast. Crinkled brown leaves swirled along the edge of the road and teased at his ankles. There would be frost tonight.

  Once again Daniel arrived at the Farm while everyone was in at their dinner. He went round to the kitchen door where Mrs. Geary smiled when she saw him. She cut him a slice of pork roast and gave him some baked beans to go with it. It was the best meal he'd eaten in a long time and sharing a table with her made it easy to talk. He had never heard her say anything about why she and Ellen lived at Brook Farm or what she thought of the people here. He had been a child when she left Galway with her new husband and he hadn't paid much attention to why they were going. Today, without his even asking, she started talking about how she and Ellen had come to Brook Farm.

  "My husband wanted more than anything to get an education for his children," she said. "He never went to school at all, any more than I did, but the priest taught him to read and write and he learned everything so quickly it was astonishing. His father wanted to make him a priest, but he and I had found each other when we were young and we were determined to have our own lives. Patrick saved up every penny he earned on the fishing boats to buy us passage to America. My parents were willing to let me go, and so the priest called the banns and we were married the day before the ship sailed. Patrick's father never forgave him for leaving, but he softened a bit after Ellen was born and sent a letter with his blessing for all of us.