The Transcendental Murder by Jane Langton Page B

lips. “It was Paul Revere. I mean, you know, not Paul Revere but that other one, that rides up in the parade. I heard a shot as I was coming up back there behind the Minute-man, and this man on a horse with a costume on, you know, and a wig, he rode almost on top of me, jumping over the fence …”
    Everybody stared at Arthur. “And he-he said ‘musket,’ I heard him myself …”
    â€œWho?” said Patrolman Vine. “Who said ‘musket’?”
    Arthur pointed to the dead man. “Him. He did.”
    Patrolman Vine squinted at Arthur. Then he put his big hand on Arthur’s arm and pulled him forward. Arthur, staring up at him respectfully, began to be aware for the first time of the glory that was to be his. But then the policeman looked away from Arthur and spoke to Mrs. Jellicoe. “You’ve got a phone in there at the Old Manse? Would you get the station on the line and ask them to send some more men down here and the District Medical Examiner? Tell them there’s been an accident, it looks like someone’s been shot. You know the number? Okay.”
    Mrs. Jellicoe was off like a hare. She ran all the way back to the house and breathlessly did as she was told. Then she hung up the phone and rolled her codfish eyes up at the ceiling. The officer hadn’t told her she was not to telephone anybody else. Why shouldn’t she notify poor Mrs. Goss? After all, someone should tell the poor woman, and she, Letitia Jellicoe, might as well have the painful task. Mrs. Jellicoe stared at the telephone. She loved its rubbery black feel. In her grasp it was an instrument of steel. Quickly she called up Elizabeth Goss, informed her tactfully that her son had murdered her husband with a musket ball at the North Bridge, reduced her to hysterics, and hung up gently, clicking her tongue sympathetically against the top of her dentures. Now, should she run back to see what was happening? Or perhaps she should take the time to make one or two more calls. She mustn’t be selfish, after all …
    The crowd beside the grave of the British soldiers was increasing. Patrolman Vine had all he could do to keep them from pressing forward and trampling the ground around the body. Arthur Furry, standing patiently to one side, looked modestly at the ground. He, Arthur Furry, had practically witnessed a murder, a real murder. There would be pictures and headlines. BOY SCOUT DISCOVERS BODY! Arthur’s eyes widened. Whatever happened, he mustn’t forget to do his very best at all times. He mustn’t forget that he would be representing Troop 296 of Acton, in fact the whole entire Boy Scout movement. It sure was lucky he’d been so late. It was funny, but yesterday when he was supposed to be cleaning up his room, it was almost like something had told him he shouldn’t do it, he should watch TV instead. It was almost like a voice. Arthur glanced gratefully at the body of the man he had seen in the agony of death. But that was uncomfortable. His eyes slid up to the inscription set into the wall above the body. The inscription lamented with condescending sympathy the two British redcoats who had fallen at the bridge.

    THEY CAME THREE THOUSAND MILES, AND DIED,
    TO KEEP THE PAST UPON ITS THRONE;
    UNHEARD, BEYOND THE OCEAN TIDE,
    THEIR ENGLISH MOTHER MADE HER MOAN.

Chapter 18
Baptismal waters from the Head above These babes I foster daily are to me; I dip my pitcher in these living springs And draw, from depths below, sincerity.
BRONSON ALCOTT
    Freddy was looking for something that would be nice to play with, like a tractor engine or a big greasy battery. There was nothing in the bam where his father and John were tooling up the com planter. Freddy had just learned to walk, so he toddled out the door and wandered down behind it toward the red-painted shed where the cider press was, sitting down occasionally with a plop and getting up again. The door of the shed was around on