Crow Hollow by Michael Wallace Page B

never laid a hand on me—not in that way. The other things I saw . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    “I read your account,” James said.
    “As I said in the meetinghouse, that wasn’t the whole of it. If you had read it all, you’d know why I intend to travel with you beyond Winton.”
    “Yes, I recall. You spoke of your daughter being yet alive. Is your narrative incomplete in some other way?”
    But Prudence didn’t seem to have heard. Her eyes had taken on a glazed, distant expression. Her brow furrowed, and her mouth pinched tight. It was a dark look, and James wondered if some wretched memory had clawed its way free and taken possession of her.
    “Art thou well, friend?” Peter asked.
    Prudence shuddered, as if trying to clear her head of a nightmare. “Pray, pardon me.” She turned to James. “What is in the pockets of your overcoat?”
    “Pistols, paper cartridges with balls and powder.”
    “Not those ones. The inner pockets. Where you keep your coins, your secret messages. The vials and things.”
    He started. “Did you go through my possessions while I was sleeping?”
    “No,” she said. “I mean, yes, but not last night. It was the first night you arrived. I entered your room when you were sleeping.”
    That was fairly alarming. The weeks on the ship must have dulled his senses. He’d slept while wolves stalked the coach, and now it appeared that this woman had groped his belongings while he lay sleeping, as dead to the world as a hibernating bear. His suspicion of the widow was growing.
    “About the poison,” James said. “Where were you when we were eating? Back in the kitchen, was it?”
    “No, I—wait, you can’t believe that. Peter, tell him. I would never! Please, you have to believe me.”
    “Gentle, friend,” Peter told her. “He’s trying to rile thee into making a mistake. He doesn’t actually believe that thou art guilty.”
    “Will you let me do my job, you silly Quaker?”
    “Thou attempted to deceive this good woman.”
    “The devil take you,” James said irritably.
    Peter shrugged and looked back out the window.
    “Very well,” James said to Prudence. “Then what were you doing in my belongings?”
    “Look in your pocket. You’ll see.”
    He reached into the pockets one by one. There were so many things there, things he didn’t trust to his trunk, that it took a moment to figure out what she meant. Letters of credit and introduction. Rings with hidden compartments. Invisible ink for delivering secret messages. A list of French and Dutch spies and their aliases. The names of the other agents of the king currently stationed in New England and New York, written in numbered code. How to find his associate in Springfield, and another man in Hartford, these instructions also written in a cipher.
    At last he found it, an unfamiliar sheaf of papers tied together with twine. He took it out, slipped off the twine, and unfolded the papers. There was writing in a fine, feminine hand, but it was still too dark to read easily.
    “What is it?”
    “The story about my missing daughter.”
    “I see.”
    “I want you to find her.”
    “Where do you think she is?”
    “In the northern forests, with a tribe of Nipmuk and Abenaki. The land of Verts Monts—French-claimed, but wild.”
    “So the frozen, hostile wilderness. With Indians who killed hundreds of English and suffered near extermination by their hand. Yes, I’m sure they’ll welcome us. You don’t have some secret French map of the waterways and Indian trails, do you? No? I didn’t think so.”
    “I’ll pay you handsomely.”
    “How? From what I understand, your brother-in-law was given stewardship of Sir Benjamin’s estate until you remarry.”
    “That is true, but—”
    “It doesn’t matter. I’m a servant of the Crown. No bribe will turn me from my purpose.”
    “James, please.”
    He raised his eyebrows at the use of his Christian name, and it was light enough now to see her flush.
    “I am not