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BETSY LAY AWAKE LONG into the night. The sight she’d witnessed in the alleyway, Toby’s limp body, the river of blood gushing from his neck, was simply too gruesome to thrust aside. It also brought back vivid memories of that awful night when the men brought John home. Grief threatened again to overtake her. Only this time, it was coupled with guilt.
If she hadn’t insisted that she and Toby go to the pier tonight when Uncle Abel said he’d deliver her supplies tomorrow, this would never have happened. A sob caught in her throat. She had just wanted to feel the same elation that she and John had felt exclaiming over all the lovely fabric and tassels and braid they’d received in their first shipment of goods. Back then they’d both been full of ideas for pretty new bed hangings and attractive window coverings. She had so looked forward to feeling that way again. Instead, her selfish impatience had caused . . . oh, if only she hadn’t insisted they go to the dock tonight. Just then, Betsy clearly heard a voice inside her head telling her she was not the one at fault, that if the man who stabbed Toby hadn’t chanced upon him tonight at the quay, he might have sought him out at her shop, or perhaps at Sarah’s home, thereby placing her sister, and perhaps herself, in grave danger.
Betsy sat straight up in bed.
Could it be true?
She covered her face with her hands. Dear God, please, please do not let Toby die!
* * *
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Betsy’s thoughts were still churning. Her uncle had not yet sent word of Toby’s condition, although, like John, she feared the boy couldn’t possibly survive such massive wounds. She was so overwrought she could scarcely swallow a bite of the lumpy oatmeal she’d mindlessly prepared to break her fast. Later that morning, she took up her sewing. Left to do on the new flags for General Washington was to cut out and attach all the five-pointed stars.
Mid-morning a rap at the door caused Betsy’s head to jerk up. Her heart in her throat, she hurried through the house to find a portly man on the doorstep. An insignia on the pocket of his frockcoat identified him as a city official.
“A fine mornin’ to ye, ma’am. I’m Constable O’Malley.”
The grim look on the man’s face sent a shudder through Betsy.
The constable stepped inside accompanied by a gust of cool air pungent with the scent of impending rain. Politely removing his cap, he said, “Abel James asked that I relay to ye the sad news of Toby Grimes’ passin’, ma’am.”
“Oh-h.” Betsy’s eyes squeezed shut. A second later, after regaining herself, she said, “I-I neglected to tell my uncle last night that I was . . . standing at the far end of the alleyway the instant Toby was stabbed.”
The constable blinked. “Are ye saying ye witnessed the crime, ma’am? That ye can identify who kilt the boy?”
“No.” Betsy shook her head. “I caught only a glimpse of the man’s face a split second before he . . . plunged his knife into . . . ” Her breath caught in her throat. “I-It was far too dark to clearly see the man’s face, sir. I saw only that he was of a greater height and girth than Toby. He was quite . . . burly-looking.”
“Ah. No doubt a presser.” The constable fingered his cap. “They’s two ships anchored in the harbor what’s short-handed. Watch said pressmen has been rounding up hands. No doubt young Toby refused to go and the presser jes’ kilt him.” He jammed his cap back on his head and turned to go. “No use investigatin’ the matter further, ma’am.”
“Wait!” Betsy cried. “A murder was committed, sir! It is your duty to investigate the crime.”
The constable shrugged. “Wouldn’t rightly know where to begin, ma’am. Would be nigh on impossible to determine who was on the wharf last night. Like I said, the perpetrator was most likely a presser. Lessen you, or the boy’s mother, can think of a reason why somebody’d want Toby Grimes dead; ain’t no reason not to conclude it weren’t no random killin’. Dockside stabbin’s ‘er quite common, ye know.”
“But you must make some sort of effort to find the killer!”
“Ma’am, they’s a stabbin’ most ever’ day down at t’quay. What with sailors from ports ‘round the world, and now soldiers an’ unsavory sorts hangin’ around, there’s no way I could run the guilty party to ground. Like as not, the fellow what done Toby in is twenty leagues out to sea by now.”
“Well, perhaps someone other than myself observed the pair enter the alleyway, or . . . or perhaps heard them arguing beforehand. To ascertain why they were quarreling might lead you straight to the guilty party.”
“Even if’n the two of ‘em was seen, like I said, the killer is likely long gone by now. Sailors what gits their-selves stabbed generally jes’ ties a rag ‘round the wound and gits right back on the boat. If’n they dies out to sea . . .” he turned palms up, “well, you know what they does with the body then.” He turned to leave. “Good day to ye, ma’am.”
Betsy watched in disbelief as the constable advanced to the flagway.
Once there, however, he paused. “Do ye s’pose Toby was involved in some sort of shady dealin’s, ma’am?”
“Toby was a fine young man; reliable and responsible. I once entrusted him with five shillings, and upon his return to the shop, he handed over every cent due me along with the goods I’d sent him to purchase.”
“Well, then, there’s yer motive, ma’am.”
“What are you saying?”
“Robbery. Not a penny found in the boy’s pockets. In all likelihood, the fellow what kilt him stole his money. Robbery was the motive, pure and simple.” He touched his cap and strode away.
Betsy could hardly believe her ears. How could the authorities dismiss Toby’s death in such an offhanded fashion? It was bad enough that dozens of young men were being shot dead on battlefields up north. It was unthinkable that fine young men, like John and Toby, could be slain right here at home and no one bothered to seek out the killers.
At length Betsy’s outrage turned to frustration, and then to gloom when she realized that at least part of what the constable had said was true. It would be impossible to determine who had been on the quay last night. She herself had walked past dozens of drunken sailors who by today would not recall anything they’d seen or heard last night. Also true was that by morning, half the ships that had docked yesterday had already put out to sea, quite likely taking Toby’s killer right along with them. Still . . . something should be done. But . . . what?
Returning to the parlor, Betsy continued to mull the matter over as she returned to work on General Washington’s flags. Eventually the sound of raindrops pelting the windowpanes penetrated her consciousness. If her uncle hadn’t yet sorted out which parcels on the wharf were hers and claimed them, the downpour would very likely ruin her fine new fabric and costly supplies. But she could do nothing to remedy that either. Exhaling a frustrated sigh, she turned again to her sewing. And an hour or so later, was relieved when the hard rain let up. Soon after that, an employee of her uncle’s delivered a dozen boxes and crates to her doorstep. If Toby had been there, Betsy would have set him to unpacking the boxes and hefting the heavy rolls of fabric off the floor and carrying them across the room to lean against the rear wall of the shop. Instead, still wracked with grief over poor Toby’s death, Betsy tackled the cumbersome task herself.
Some time later, her work was interrupted when a shabbily dressed woman balancing a drowsing babe on her hip entered the shop. The woman’s free hand clutched that of a whimpering three or four-year-old girl. From Betsy’s position on the floor where she was removing supplies from a wooden crate, she noted the muddied hem of the woman’s brown fustian skirt. Although the rain had ceased, it was evident the woman had slogged through ankle-deep water on her way here. Also evident was that she was not the sort of patron who generally frequented Betsy’s shop. Rising, Betsy thrust aside thoughts of Toby as she dusted her hands on her apron.
“Good afternoon, madam. What might I do for you today?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You Betsy Ross?”
“Indeed, I am, madam. And you are . . .?”
The woman thrust her sleeping babe toward Betsy. Caught off-guard, Betsy wordlessly took the infant as the woman bent to pick up the little girl who was now loudly bawling.
“I’m Toby’s mum. I come to ask ye what happened to m’ boy. Constable said you was with him last night on the dock.” The woman bounced the squirming toddler in her arms.
Fresh mist pooled in Betsy’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Grimes. I told Constable O’Malley all that I know.” She shifted the rather heavy babe in her arms from one hip to the other. “Could I offer you and your little girl a . . . cup of water?”
“Water ain’t gonna’ bring back my boy!” the woman snapped. “Toby was a big he’p to me. How am I gonna’ manage without him?”
The woman’s outburst caused the little girl’s cries to intensify. Her balled-up fists pushed against her mama’s shoulder.
“I got all I cin handle jes’ lookin’ after these two and there’s another one at home. What am I gonna’ do now, Miz Ross? I ain’t got no money to feed my youngin’s or pay the rent!”
Betsy winced as fresh guilt swept over her. “P-perhaps you could send word to your husband, ma’am. Given the circumstances, I expect his commanding officer would excuse him.”
“Ain’t nobody cares ‘bout no one but they-selves no more.” Setting the little girl down, Mrs. Grimes reached into her apron pocket. “I come to give ye this.” She held out an object. “Found it in Toby’s pocket. Ain’t mine. Figured it belonged to you, or yer sister. I don’t rightly know where she lives.”
Because Betsy’s hands were full, she did not take the object, nor did she see what it was. Something small. In a fumble of confusion, the woman dropped the object onto a nearby table before snatching her babe from Betsy’s arms. Her long gaze took in the array of colorful items scattered about the floor.
“Looks like you got the blunt to buy ye’self plenty o’ fancy geegaws.”
“Perhaps I could give you something for the children to eat,” Betsy suggested weakly. “I-I have fresh bread.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “A reward fer returnin’ yer property to ye would be nice.”
“Of course.” Betsy hurried to the parlor and returned carrying the last few coins Uncle Abel had given her. She dropped them into the woman’s outstretched hand. “Perhaps this will see you through the next several weeks, Mrs. Grimes.”
The woman brought one coin to her mouth and bit down on it, then deposited them into her pocket. “Thank ye kindly, Miz Ross.” She scooped up the little girl’s hand and turned to go. At the door, she paused. “Don’t s’pose ye know the name of Toby’s other employer, do ye?”
“His . . . other employer?” Betsy stammered. “I-I was unaware Toby had another employer, other than my sister, Mrs. Donaldson.”
“Paid far better than you, an’ that’s a fact.”
“I wish I could help, Mrs. Grimes.”
“Humph.”
Betsy turned back to her work. Who, other than Sarah, had Toby been working for? And when did he do the extra work? He was here at sun-up every morning and again before sundown every night and lately, a good many hours in between. The rest of the day, she assumed he was with Sarah. Toby had never mentioned another employer.
Perhaps she should alert Constable O’Malley to this new turn.
She resumed unwrapping supplies and storing them in the proper cupboards. An hour or more passed before it occurred to her to see what possession of hers Toby’s mother had returned.