Chapter 8

"Where's the candles I asked for?" Margaret Beall said as she unwrapped her husband's few purchases.

"Plumb forgot 'em. Must a'missed that on your list." He held out the 8smudged piece of heavy brown paper. "The ink ran some in the rain I guess."

"Humpf," his wife said, pushing graying strands of hair back behind her ears. "Those tapers I traded Miss Hope for are so smoky, but we'll just have to put up with them 'less that chandler comes around again pretty soon. I've saved up almost a whole tub of tallow. I see you got some good oil anyhow and this thread looks right. Where'd you get that?"

"Oh yes, that was from a dressmaker's place I went to. Tall woman name of Purdom. I guess thread's a 'notion, ' is it?

His wife ignored the question. "Why'd you go see her, Alex?"

"Still poking into that killing where the woman had her arm taken off."

His wife shuddered briefly and sniffed. "Find out anything?"

"Don't rightly know. Let me ask you - would a woman go and have a dress made and then bill some man 'thout asking him?"

"Some might. There's all kinds of women down in Georgetown. Some as common as a barber's chair."

"I found that a couple of different women had this same man buy dresses for them, but then he claimed he didn't know the needlewoman that made the clothes. Does that sound right?"

"Not really, but he could have given his doxies or somebody else, maybe a factor, the money."

"Two or three Arnold County folks on her list, Brookes mainly."

"Wish you'd forget Arnold County and being sheriff too. You done your job then. Fact is, we both worked hard at that." Margaret Beall bent to cut potatoes into the pot on the swinging iron pole of her always busy fireplace.

"I can understand old Mr. Brookes out there paying for a dress for his new wife or her young daughter, but why would his son be on the list? He's not married or even close to it far as I know."

"You'll have to ask him," his wife said. "Did you buy some peppercorns?"

Beall shook his head. "Nope, didn't see that either. You better come with me next Saturday."

"I got some dried peppers we can use. Lord, Alexander we waste a full day going down there, and you can do the shopping if you keep your wits about you and not go off like a March hare."

Beall smiled. "I'll try," he said and thought about Annie's crated stove.

"Judge Brookes, good of you to see me." Alexander Beall stood as the portly man wearing an old fashioned periwig atop what was left of his white mane entered the room. He was dressed in the style of a generation earlier, and his colorful waistcoat showed the stains of many meals.

"Not a'tall, my boy. Please have a seat. Port? Well, a bit early for me too I guess. How can I help you?"

"I wondered if you heard about the death of a woman called Betsy Miller down in Georgetown, less than a month ago."

"No, name's not familiar." The older man wriggled in his large chair trying to get comfortable, and he clenched and flexed his right hand under a lacy cuff. "Damned arthritis or ague or something, " he said when he noticed Beall looking at it. "Hand cramps up. Can't make a fist or hold a pen properly. Nuisance."

"Yessir," said Beall. "I was down there last Saturday, and the constable, fellow called Wainright..."

"Yes, yes, I know him. Governor Eden gave him the job. Probably some kin of his wife you know. Spoils of war they call it."

"Well, he's been looking into this woman's death, her murder. You remember the Clagett family that was killed some time back, just south of you? I was sheriff then."

"Oh yes, bad business. Judge Burgess handled that case if I recall."

"Yes sir, but I reckon I brought in the wrong boys. Now, this woman down in Georgetown, her body was missing an arm, like Mrs. Clagett over there."

"Really? Well, I should have heard that. They love scandal and mystery down there most as much as they love pounds sterling and gold guilders. Killed her and took her arm, you don't say?"

"Yes sir. Thing is your name was on her list of customers, that is you were billed for a dress she made this year, this past summer, a pound and two if I remember right."

"I'll ask my wife, but as for the bill, my man in Georgetown would handle all that. Lord knows, he makes enough off me. If the tobacco price hadn't risen a bit this year, we'd probably be in the debtors' prison." Brookes gave Beall a small smile to show that he was not really serious about that.

"Is Robert Peter still your factor down there?" Beall took out his small, tattered notebook and stub of a pencil.

"No, no, he's turned it over to another man, use to work for Andrew Heugh, young fellow called McKendry. Another Scot of course. Good enough for all that, keeps his accounts clearly, and is reasonable in his charges I believe. Of course he gets it coming and going, so he does all right I'm sure."

"Your son James, his name was also on the woman's list," said Beall, looking up and watching the older man's eyebrows tangle.

"That's odd, damn odd. Wait a moment." With obvious effort, Brookes lifted himself to his feet and went to a window. He raised the sash and yelled, "Simon. Simon, go find Master James and tell him I want to see him. Well, run, damn you." He went to the huge sideboard and poured himself a small glass of dark wine and returned to his chair. "He'll be here presently and you can ask him. Sure you won't..." He raised his glass and drank it off, smacking his lips.

"Thank you no. I stick to beer mostly."

"The war changed James, you know. He's much quieter, much more serious. His mother died when he was twelve or so. Consumption they said. I remarried during the revolt while he was away. The boy ran wild for a while, but then the militia service and those years in a British prison ship did something to him. He came home a different man, but a man for all that."