The little silversmith raised his forefinger with the questioning gesture of a minister of the gospel. “If Blossom set out for the cart, why did he not return before the boy? The expectation of beer would have quickened his pace. You can see the cart is not at the rear doorway. Therefore, I fear Blossom persisted in his refusal to fetch it, and blows were exchanged. Then rage overcame all mercy. Murder! Affrighted by his deed, the old man has fled.”
“After him! Before he escapes to the ships!” my brother cried.
“Silence!” Colonel Clinton’s voice cracked over the mob like a carter’s whip, and he directed some men to run to the Long Wharf, others in the direction of the Fort, still others toward the Common and the Charles River, and a final group, including my brother James and myself, to inquire at the wheelwright’s, then search the nearby taverns and stables.
But he call’d me back. I must remain to watch that nothing be stolen from the shop. To this I was not averse, my curiosity to examine the mark of the blow, to infer the weapon employ’d, to search the shop for it, being far greater than any boyish urge to fox-hound through the streets after a drunken old man.
At the front of the shop, on Warwick Lowther’s work bench, none of the hammers and mallets show’d blood. In the main door, however, I noticed the long iron key to have been left carelessly in the lock. Since any knave might remove it, in order to return stealthily by night and attack the silversmith’s strong-box, I took the key out, and shook my head. For its crude bit had but a single notch. The lock was single-warded. A child could have pick’d it.
I carried the key to Dennis, who sat upon the staircase with his face buried between his hands so that his red hair appear’d to be a pile of flame above them. When he look’d up, I ask’d him kindly: “Did your master, forgetting, leave his key in the door?”
“It is my key,” he blurted. “Mr. Gill gave it to me, God rest his soul. Unlock’d the door, I did, and saw Mr. Gill’s legs hanging from the kettle. I set down the pail and rush’d to pull him out, forgetting the key.”
“Was there a reason the shop was not open for trade?” I ask’d.
“I know it not,” he sighed. “I was surprised the door would not open, and quickly unlock’d it. For Mr. Gill and his uncle seem’d always impatient for their beer. Believe me, I found my master thus!” Fear raised the pitch of his voice. “You shan’t tell of the threats I made against him whilst you and I walk’d on the ship-wharves?”
“Empty threats are common among apprentices,” I said slowly, eyeing the trapezoid of sunlight that lay from the rear doorway across the wax’d floor, the huge kettle, and the base of the candle-dipping machine. “Was the rear door also closed?”
“My head was pounding too fast for me to notice such little things,” Dennis replied.
“Was there sunlight upon the kettle or upon your master’s blue coattails?” I persisted.
“Aye!” the Irish lad exclaim’d, wonderingly. “Into the dimness of the shop I came, and the first sight that struck my eyes was a spot of bright blue.”
“So the rear door was left open,” I mused. “Is this usual?”
Dennis nodded. “It helps draw off the wax vapours.”
“But is it usual, the rear door open when the front door is lock’d?” I continued, to which he shook his tousled head.
I would have ask’d him whether Blossom Gill and Warwick Lowther own’d keys to the door, but this seem’d certain. And, a mouth being better closed when there is no longer wisdom behind it, I held my peace and review’d the circumstances: the candlemaker dead in his kettle, Warwick Lowther above stairs drinking his tea, the front door lock’d, the rear door open. The weapon — here I realized I had been foolishly searching for it before examining the wound, which would show whether the weapon be sharp or blunt, light or heavy, smooth or irregular.
Before I could reach the corpse, Colonel Clinton shouted angrily: “Here, you, lad, where has Lowther gone? The villain, he has fled! Have you been asleep, you dolt?”
Tho’ I had been instructed to watch the silver, not the silversmith, I flush’d and ran up the stairs to Warwick Lowther’s garret. His wife, a slight, dark-hair’d woman much sagg’d from child-bearing, retorted he was not there and follow’d me down.
“All is safe, sir,” I assured the Colonel, “for his wife and children are still here.”
Colonel Clinton’s eyes narrow’d at Mrs. Lowther, and he mutter’d: “Nevertheless, men have deserted their families to preserve their own necks.”
“Mr. Lowther has gone with the others,” she rebuff’d him bravely, “to search for that evil old man. Fight, fight, it is all those two kinsmen did. I should have known it would end this way. Their drunken voices rose nightly to our quarters as if they were shouting up a hollow tree.”
Embarrass’d, hoping the little silversmith had not deserted, leaving her to fend for six or seven young ones, I knelt beside the corpse. Mr. Gill’s waxen face had now harden’d so that he seem’d a man frozen in green ice, and I peel’d away the greenish wax adhering to his closely tonsured yellow hair. The indentation on the back of his skull, I would have wager’d a sovereign, was made by the curved and bluntly pointed end of the poker.
Since my brother had employ’d the poker to retrieve the deceased’s wig, blood could no longer be seen upon it. And I wonder’d if there might be certain chemicals which, applied to even the smallest trace of blood, would give off an accusing smoke or other indication that here was the victim’s life-blood.
Even more useful, I ponder’d, would be a white powder which, sprinkled on the suspect’s hand, would be distinctively color’d by the oil of his skin. The same white powder being sprinkled on the handle of the poker would turn a like colour if the villain had gripped it. But, replied the less fanciful side of my intellect, a murder weapon is immediately pass’d around by the curious, so that a useless rainbow-colour’d powder would invariably be the result.
What would completely simplify this life-and-death problem, I mused, and rule out all danger of faulty human deductions, as well as the need for the foregoing inventions, would be a clockwork mounted beside a horn which concentrates the suspect’s voice upon a brass cymbal. Perhaps experiment would show that when a man utters a lie, his voice produces such unnatural vibrations that the cymbal, tuned to them alone, would vibrate. This motion could be transmitted by means of a lever to the clockwork, which would then strike a chime, infallibly declaring the falsehood.
I stood up and examin’d the bleach’d wig hairs clinging to the once or twice dipp’d wicks on the dipping frame above the kettle. Since invention of the foregoing mechanisms, if possible at all, would require more time and knowledge than was presently at my disposal, I determined that my truth-machine must be constructed of Pure Reason, systematically applied. For, having interceded once in this inquiry, my youthful pride would not permit me to withdraw from it.
Yet, I warn’d myself, I must not hazard an opinion as to the identity of the murderer. Rather, I should arrange the evidence as if it were columns of figures, and let the sum totals finally determine the guilt. Otherwise, I will tend to notice and consider mainly the evidence pointing toward the most likely suspect, and thereby risk building a false case. This is because, being a reasonable creature, I am able to find reasons for anything I have decided to believe. And today a man’s life is at stake.
Turning, I observed on the next frame of wicks a few strangely short hairs of fiery red. And glancing covertly at my Irish friend, I felt my resolve of mathematical detachment sorely tax’d.