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A KEY.
To what? It didn’t match the key to the lock on the shop door, and there was no lock on the rear door. To secure it, one merely settled a wooden bar into an iron bracket designed to prevent someone from pushing open the door from the outside. Furthermore, Betsy kept nothing . . . no chests, cabinets or cupboards . . . secured under lock and key.
Perhaps it belonged to Sarah. Deciding at once to find out, she dropped the key into her apron pocket, snatched up her shawl and this time, locked the shop door behind her before she set out to walk the short distance to Sarah’s house. She had seen her sister only a few times since the day she returned to her own home. Hurrying up the street, Betsy wondered if William had written to say when he would, or would not, be returning to Philadelphia now that the war had started up again.
The glum expression on Sarah’s face told Betsy she hadn’t heard from her husband. In addition, she appeared as disturbed as Betsy over Toby’s death. Sarah declared the key wasn’t hers and had no idea who, other than the pair of them, the boy might have been working for.
“I do hope you will leave the solving of this crime to the authorities, Betsy.”
“The authorities’ attitude regarding crime in this city is a travesty!” Betsy exclaimed.
“I expect they are doing the best they can, Sister.”
Betsy saw no need to discuss the matter further. She did accept Sarah’s invitation to take supper with her, and later that night, before climbing into bed, turned again to studying the key. Because it did not belong to either her or Sarah meant it must belong to Toby’s other employer. She turned the object over in her hand. Or, perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps Toby had simply found it and carried it in his pocket as a token of good luck. Her little brother George used to carry a pebble in his pocket. John always carried a thimble in his breeches pocket, which was silly since he never used one. Betsy carried needle and thread in her reticule, and since John died, she’d taken to carrying his thimble. Somehow it felt as if she always had a part of him with her.
Before drifting off to sleep, it occurred to Betsy that perhaps the key itself was the key to Toby’s murder. Perhaps Toby had been killed because he had the key and if she hadn’t called out to the man with the knife, he might have rifled through Toby’s pockets after he killed him in search of it. That she was in the alleyway prevented the murderer from doing so, which meant that because the man with the knife hadn’t found the key, he, or perhaps a conspirator, would still be looking for it. Icy fingers of fear washed over Betsy. If someone were to appear at her door inquiring about a lost key, it would either mean the person was Toby’s killer, or was somehow connected to the crime. Surely, at that point, Constable O’Malley would agree to investigate the murder. In the meantime, she’d be extra vigilant to lock her front door when she left the shop and to secure the windows and doors every night before she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber.
* * *
A FEW MORNINGS LATER, Betsy was struggling to cart heavy logs, one by one, down the steep steps to the underground kitchen. After stacking the dry wood on the stone floor, she reached into the bucket where Toby stored twigs and sticks for kindling when her fingers touched . . . something odd. Drawing forth the object, a small wooden box; the lid fastened with a lock, her pulse began to pound.
Clutching the little box, Betsy raced up the steep stairs to the ground floor, then up the second flight to her bedchamber and the cupboard where she’d put the key. Fumbling with it, she managed to insert the key into the lock, which was a wee bit rusty, then carefully turned back the lid.
Her brow puckered when all she found inside were three scraps of paper, one with a crude diagram drawn upon it, another containing an odd assortment of words that looked like no words Betsy had ever seen before. The third page . . . appeared to have nothing at all written upon it. She turned it over and over, even carried it to the window and held it up to the light, and after turning it this way and that, had to conclude . . . it was completely blank.
Shaking her head, Betsy returned the pages to the little box, locked it and stowed it and the key beneath a pile of neatly folded linens in the cupboard, then she returned below stairs to build up the fire and prepare something to eat. Nibbling on bread and jam, thoughts of Toby and the mysterious pages inside the wooden box swirled through her mind. No doubt, if John were here, he’d quickly sort out the puzzle and also know where to begin to track down Toby’s killer. As usual, frustration set in when Betsy realized she was making no progress whatever in solving the mystery surrounding John’s death, and now she had no clue where to begin looking for Toby’s killer.
* * *
THAT NIGHT BETSY ATTENDED another Fighting Quaker meeting. Two of her young lady friends . . . Minette Dubeau, a pretty French girl whose parents had recently immigrated to Philadelphia, and Emma Peters, a new friend she’d met since joining the group . . . arrived just after dusk to walk with her the quarter mile to where the meetings were held. When Betsy told them of Toby Grimes’s death, both girls expressed heartfelt sympathy.
“Perhaps zee will find another helper soon,” Minette said, her words colored by a thick French accent, which to Betsy sounded charming. All three young ladies were identically dressed in long gray frocks adorned with plain white collars and snug white caps on their heads. Short blond curls bobbed beneath Minette’s cap.
“Do the authorities have any notion who might have killed Toby?” Emma asked, gazing around Minette to address Betsy. Emma was the tallest of the three, her plain features and straight brown hair a contrast to both Minette’s fair coloring, and Betsy’s vibrant prettiness.
Betsy told her friends what the constable had said, concluding with his reasons for making no attempt whatsoever to solve the crime.
“None at all?” Emma exclaimed.
“No.” Betsy sadly shook her head.
“Eet would indeed be difficult to question all zee reef-raff on the wharf,” Minette said.
Nodding, both Betsy and Emma had to agree.
Betsy chose not to mention the key Toby’s mother had brought her, or the little wooden box she’d found in the kindling bucket, instead she steered the conversation to another topic. Attempting to sound cheerful, she said, “All I have left to do on my project for General Washington is stitch on the stars.”
“If you like, I could come tomorrow afternoon and help you stitch on stars.”
“That would be lovely,” Betsy replied.
“If zee wishes, I veel also come.”
Betsy smiled. “Thank you. You are both very kind.”
An announcement their leader read aloud that night regarding the public reading of an important document the Continental Congress had been hard at work upon brightened the spirits of every Fighting Quaker. It was said the document would soon be read aloud from the steps of the State House with a parade to follow. More sobering news delivered at the meeting focused on the British warships that had lately begun to arrive in New York harbor. Despite the lowering effect of that revelation, by the end of the meeting, everyone was again optimistically declaring that the colonists had little to fret about as no doubt, General Washington would chase the British out of New York the same as he had done in Boston.
After the meeting adjourned, Minette wished to introduce her friends to her older brother, François, whom she said had only just arrived in Philadelphia from France.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ross; Miss Peters,” the tall Frenchman declared after his sister presented her girlfriends to him.
“Thank you, sir.” Monsieur Dubeau’s lack of an accent surprised Betsy, who found herself smiling up at the handsome gentleman. Since John’s death she hadn’t felt the least desire to meet another man, but the Frenchman’s refined good looks, his thick dark hair and alert black eyes, quite appealed to her. She surmised him to be a few years older than she, perhaps six, or seven and twenty.
“Please, address me as François.” The Frenchman’s intent gaze remained fixed upon Betsy’s smiling face.
“Very well.” Betsy’s long lashes fluttered against her flushed cheeks. “François.” Even speaking the man’s name felt . . . exhilarating.
After exchanging additional pleasantries, the gentleman bid the ladies a good evening. Walking home, the girls chatted and laughed amongst themselves.
“I zink my brother find you . . . how you say? Pret-ty.”
Both Betsy and Emma laughed gaily.
Emma said, “I zink Betsy find your brother . . . pretty.”
All three girls giggled. Betsy didn’t protest, although in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help wondering why the gallant Frenchman hadn’t offered to escort the ladies home? Aloud, she remarked on the fact that François seemed not to have the least trace of a French accent.
“My brother, he grow up in England . . . in home of our cousine. François learn very well heez . . . Anglais.”
“I see.” Betsy nodded. Of a sudden, an odd prick of guilt assailed her. Thinking about another man somehow made her feel as if she were . . . betraying John.
“What does your brother plan to do now that he’s joined your parents here in the colonies?” Emma asked.
Minette shrugged. “He mean to become . . . how you say? Man of state. States-man. In England, François study just-ezz. He very much like all things to be . . . fair. François very unhappy when our cousine killed in war.”
“Which war?” Betsy queried.
“Theez war,” Minette replied, her tone saying the answer to that question should be obvious. “Our cousine, he killed in Boss-teen.”
“O-oh, Boston,” Betsy murmured. “I am so sorry.” Her brow puckered. If Patriots had killed their cousin, why were François and his sister now siding with the rebels? If he were angry that Patriots had killed his cousin, why was his allegiance not with the English rather than against them? Perhaps, Minette had got things backward. The little French girl often mixed things up. Perhaps Betsy would have the opportunity one day to learn the truth from François. Although exciting, that thought also caused another prick of guilt to stab her.
Upon reaching her doorstep, Betsy bade her friends a good night and unlocking the door to her shop, entered the house alone. Crossing the front room in the darkness, she tripped over something, which . . . surprised her as there shouldn’t be anything lying in her path over which to trip. A few steps further, she stumbled again. Feeling her way to the table upon which rested a candlestick, she fumbled for a Lucifer to light the taper. Holding the flickering candle aloft, she turned around and . . . gasped.
Every item in the room was in complete disarray! All her new supplies, tape, braid, boxes of tacks and pins, her carefully organized spools of thread, were all scattered helter-skelter upon the floor. Her eyes wide, she stepped around overturned chairs and tables as she made her way to the parlor. Once there she also could not believe the clutter. Cupboard drawers had been yanked open; the contents scattered. Cushions from the sofa and both chairs had been tossed to the floor. Upon catching sight of two of her lovely china teacups shattered to pieces, tears sprang to her eyes.
Her heart pounding, she ran to the staircase and scampered to the second floor of the house. Relief washed over her when she saw that nothing there was disturbed. Suddenly an insistent pounding at the front door claimed her attention. Hurrying back downstairs, she picked her way through the house to the door.
“Miz Ross?” came a male voice. “It’s the Watch. Are you all right, ma’am?”
Betsy flung open the door. The alarmed expression on her face was sufficient answer to the night watchman’s question.
“I spotted a man runnin’ from yer side yard a few minutes ago. I give chase, but he disappeared down Bread Street a’fore I could catch ‘im. Thought I should check on ye. Perhaps I should take a look around inside.”
“Please, do, sir; come in,” Betsy breathlessly replied.
The night watchman entered the house and Betsy, holding the candle aloft, led him through the disorderly shop and into her untidy parlor. Checking the rear door and both windows, the watchman came upon the shattered window in the small pantry adjacent to the parlor through which he declared the intruder had entered the house.
“Ye’ll want to git this windowpane replaced on the morrow, ma’am.” He bent to pick up shards of glass and bits of wood that had separated the thin panes. “If you’ve a piece of chip board, ma’am, I’ll patch this up for ye tonight.”
Betsy fetched one of the empty crates her new supplies had arrived in and gratefully allowed the night watchman to cover the gaping hole. She thanked him profusely and was also grateful that, as he made his way through her shop, he paused to set upright several items of furniture, including her heavy worktable and a bulky cupboard.
Again, Betsy spent a restless night. She had no doubt what the prowler had come in search of . . . the wooden box and the key that fit it. Had she not returned home when she did, the housebreaker would have likely found his way above stairs and torn up her bedchamber. She’d checked the kitchen before she climbed the stairs to bed and was vastly relieved the interloper had not had time in which to also tear apart that room.
Lying abed, she thought back to the night Toby had been killed and the explanation given her by the voice in her head. If Toby had been involved in something sinister that resulted in his death, her impatience to retrieve her supplies that night had truly not been the cause of his death. On the other hand, she had no doubt now that the burglar would return sooner or later to resume his search for the wooden box. What the pages within the box might signify, she had no clue. She wracked her brain trying to imagine what the diagram drawn upon one of the pages in the box meant, and what message did the unintelligible words on the other page convey? Not a scrap of it made sense and furthermore, to hand over the box to the constable at this juncture would prove useless for how would the intruder know the box was no longer in her possession.