“Virginia!” Ramsey said, rising from his stool. “This is no place-Crispin! At least take-” The big butler began moving through the crowd.
But Ramsey’s youngest daughter made sure her answer was complete before Crispin reached her. “Then a quick hammer to the skull-that does the trick,” she blurted out.
The words stopped Crispin, and everyone else present. Virginia, pleased with her correct reply, grinned up at the mask of Old Crooked Face.
Ramsey was the first to break the stunned silence. “It means nothing,” he said in a tight voice. “You mean to obscure the truth. You build no logic in your case, only distractions.”
“It means everything,” Duncan countered, and called his next witness.
Cameron settled onto the stool by the judge’s table with a peeved expression.
“Reverend Arnold was a busy man, was he not, Mr. Cameron, being the Ramsey business agent as well as the vicar?”
Cameron only frowned.
“At least he had your valuable help. As a former merchant, you no doubt had a hand in the bookkeeping.” Sarah Ramsey stepped forward, extending to Duncan an object covered with a flour sack. Cameron watched her retreat with resentment in his eyes. When he turned back, Duncan had extracted the account book and opened it in front of the keeper. “Your writing, is it not, for these recent weeks?”
“Aye.”
“About stores. I see familiar entries in the first part. Flour. Bacon. Spices. Wheat. Linens.” Duncan raised the pages for all to see. “I don’t understand the second part, the one at the back,” he said, opening now to the pages he had first read in the cellar safe room. “Names from outside the Company. Numbers. Payments. Dates. For what, Mr. Cameron?”
“That’s the vicar’s writing. Ask him.”
“A lot of trouble, keeping such accounts locked in the safe room.”
Cameron glared at him.
“The Company’s first day ashore,” Duncan said abruptly, “did you kill a bear cub?”
“That was Hawkins.”
“Why do you suppose Mr. Hawkins has fled?”
“He is a trapper. Trapping season is starting.”
“A pity.” Duncan put a finger on the first line in the secret accounts. “Mr. Hawkins is the first entry, with over a dozen marks. Was he getting paid for bear cubs, Mr. Cameron?”
When the keeper didn’t reply, Duncan set the ledger in front of Ramsey and turned back to the witness stool. “What did you kill that first day, Mr. Cameron?”
The keeper’s eyes flared. “When vermin step in your path, you don’t preserve them to plague you another day.”
Duncan returned his icy stare. “You lost your family in an Indian raid, in Pennsylvania. Did you explain that to Reverend Arnold when he recruited you?”
A thin, cool smile formed on Cameron’s lips. “He said the Company needed leaders who would not shy away from the duties of avenging angels. Sure, I killed that old Indian, as good as done, judging from the blood he lost. And ye’ll not find a judge in America who would condemn me for it.”
Duncan stepped closer, spoke quickly as Cameron kept his gaze on Ramsey. “Exactly how many Indians have you killed, Mr. Cameron?”
“An even dozen so far. Four for each of mine they-” Cameron’s tongue stopped working. He slowly turned to face the assembly, from which at least a dozen Iroquois stared at him.
“An odd thing, that Arnold had to keep the work of his avenging angels so secret.” Duncan gestured toward the ledger. “This list has your name at the bottom, the most recent entry. The first date by your name was the day Sergeant Fitch was killed. Was he your price of admission to these ranks? Were you paid for Fitch as well as for Indians?”
“There is no charge against me!” Cameron spat. “Fitch died of a tomahawk to the chest. An Indian weapon.”
“No,” Duncan countered. “I measured the wound when I cleaned his body. Not a tomahawk. The blade was much wider. It was a hewing ax, the kind kept in the barn by the sharpening wheel. Passed out among the Company the night of the raid.”
“Fitch had found that damned Welshman at the bark mill,” Cameron muttered, “asked him a lot of questions about what Hawkins’s men spoke of when they drank. When his captain wasn’t here on his return, Fitch came to me about whether to tell the Reverend of what he had learned.”
“What did he learn?”
Cameron offered a cold smile. “Nothing much. Just that when they got drunk, they were always practicing their Indian war cries.”
“Is that an admission, Mr. Cameron?”
“I admit to nothing. Like Woolford said, the killing of a soldier be a military matter. Not a damned thing you can do it about, McCallum. This trial is about Frasier and Evering. You can’t-” His words choked away again as movement above caught his eye. The assembly followed his gaze upward. A tall, stately figure stood beside the mask, staring intensely at Cameron.
“You may remain there, Mr. Cameron, as my next witness speaks,” Duncan announced. “His name is Ravencatcher, of the Onondaga tribe.”
The gavel began pounding on the table; Ramsey worked it so feverishly, his wig came ajar. “This circus stops now, McCallum!” Ramsey shouted, turning for a moment to Cameron. “The chains! I want him in chains again! You’ll feel the lash this very-”
Ramsey’s arm was stopped in midair as Woolford gripped his wrist. When the patron tried to shift the gavel to his free hand, another strong arm blocked him. Pike’s sergeant loomed over him and silently pried the gavel from his hand. “Sergeant,” Woolford acknowledged with a grateful nod, and then he turned to Duncan. “Please continue.”
Another figure appeared by Ravencatcher. Conawago draped a wampum belt over the Onondaga’s raised arm. Tashgua’s son stepped into a pool of light cast through the hayloft door. Not a man below spoke.
“You were near here, in the forest, for several days before you came for Sarah in the night,” Duncan began.
“It is true,” came the reply from above.
“You and Sarah exchanged messages, using signs on the riverbank.”
“She would put signs out at dusk. I would come at dawn to reply.”
“But young Frasier saw them and tried to destroy them.”
“I did not know his name,” explained the Onondaga. “A young one with red hair. He had much fear. The day before Sarah came away with me, I saw him, by the barn in the early light. I thought to wait for him, to explain I meant him no harm, to ask that he stop destroying our sacred signs. I crouched by the alder, wrapped in the ground mist.”
“But he didn’t make it to the bank.”
“Another man came, carrying something on his shoulder. The one you call Frasier spoke in a low voice.”
“Did you see the other’s face?”
“No. He was in shadows all the time. There was only the beginning of light. It was over quickly. Four words, then a swing of that thing on the second man’s shoulder and the sound of bone cracking.”
“What did you do?”
“I stepped back across the river. It was town trouble, not for me.”
“And the four words. Did you hear them?”
Ravencatcher nodded solemnly. “‘God wills it so,’ the man said-only those words. Then the young one fell.”
Duncan turned to the judges. “There was no Scottish murderer on the ship,” he declared. “The same one who killed Frasier killed Evering-also with a hammer.” It had taken his time with Tashgua for Duncan to understand. Only one person could have taken the chart, which had been crusted with sea salt, from Evering’s cabin. Sarah never would have done so, never would have taken it into the ocean with her-unless she had known Evering was dead already. That certain knowledge had caused her to lash out at the Company with the ritual at the compass, and then to mount the spar for her suicide. Only Arnold had something to lose by Sarah’s awakening. Perhaps Evering’s life would have been spared if Arnold had only found him with the dosing vial he was to have given to Sarah, but he had seen Evering’s notes, too, which he burned in the chamber pot after killing him. Only Arnold would have understood their significance, would have known that Evering had become the junction, the ally, of the only two people who could do his plans harm.