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“I can talk as you work,” Sam said.
The man looked puzzled. “Sir?” His hand flew over the fabric as if it had a life of its own.
“I have some questions for you. About a former neighbor of yours.”
The tailor hesitated for a second, eyeing him.
The bruises weren’t helping his case, Sam knew. “There used to be a cobbler’s shop next door.”
“Yes, sir.” The tailor pivoted the fabric and went back to cutting.
“Did you know the owner, Dick Thornton?”
“Might.” The tailor bent over his task as if to hide his eyes from Sam.
“Thornton’s father had the place before him, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. That was old George Thornton.” The tailor threw down his shears, whipped the fabric off the table, and smoothed a new piece of cloth in its place. “A fine man. He’d only opened the shop a year or so before he passed. Even so, he was much missed on this street.”
Sam stilled. “The elder Thornton had just opened the shop? He wasn’t here before?”
“No, sir, he weren’t. Moved from someplace else.”
“Dogleg Lane.” One of the men sewing piped in suddenly.
The master tailor gave him a gimlet eye under his brows, and the man ducked his head back to his work.
Sam hitched his hip onto the table and folded his arms. “Was Dick home from the war in the Colonies when his father died?”
The tailor shook his head once. “No, sir. It were another year or so before Dick came home. His wife, what was George’s daughter-in-law, ran the shop until Dick returned. She was a good lass but not the canniest of women, if you follow my meaning, sir. Wasn’t doing too well by the time Dick made it home, but he soon turned it around. Dick were here only a couple of years before he got a bigger shop somewheres else.”
“Did you know Dick before he came home from the war? Had you met him?”
“No, sir.” The tailor frowned as he deftly snipped a perfect oval in the cloth. “’Twasn’t a loss, not knowing Dick Thornton, neither.”
“You don’t like the man,” Sam murmured.
“Not many here did,” the sitting tailor muttered.
The master tailor shrugged. “He puts on a nice face, always smiling, but I didn’t trust him. And his wife was afraid of him.”
“Was she?” Sam looked at his moccasins as he spoke. If what he suspected were true, Mrs. Thornton should’ve shown much more than fear. “Did she act odd in any other way?”
“No, but it wasn’t as if we saw her long after Dick returned.”
Sam glanced up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Died, didn’t she?” The tailor met his eyes, his own shrewd, before he looked back at his work again. “Fell down the stairs and broke her neck. That was what her husband said, anyway.”
Both of the sitting tailors shook their heads to show what they thought about that.
A savage thrill of triumph went through Sam. This was it, he knew. Dick Thornton wasn’t who he said he was. The prisoner MacDonald crouching under a wagon as the battle raged all around. MacDonald catching Sam’s eye from his hiding place. MacDonald grinning and winking. That was what Sam had remembered the night before as he’d pushed through the crowd at Emeline’s party. The way MacDonald used to grin and wink—the same way that Thornton grinned and winked now. Somehow MacDonald the prisoner had taken Thornton’s place.
Taken his place and now lived his life.
Ten minutes later, Sam unlocked the door to the little tailor shop and let himself out. It was all but over now. He only had to confront Dick Thornton—or the man who was calling himself Dick Thornton—and then go home. A year of searching for answers would be over. The dead of Spinner’s Falls would finally rest in peace.
Except, as he made his way back to his town house, he knew he would never be at peace again. His body might return to Boston, but his heart would forever remain behind in England.
