Page 6 of The Frozen River

Good grief. I shake my head. Men and death: either culprits or cowards.

A rectangle of light from the main room illuminates the floor and the lower half of a table where the man lies, but the form itself is a dark heap of bent limbs and twisted, frozen clothing.

“A lantern, please,” I say, looking over my shoulder at Moses. “Two would be better.”

It is only a moment before he returns, a lantern in each hand. The men step aside to let him through, and he sets one at each end of the table. The sudden warm light provides my first good look at the corpse.

Two things are obvious immediately.

It is—without question—Joshua Burgess.

And he has been hanged.

It isn’t just the body that is now revealed but the entirety of the storeroom as well. Foodstuffs are stacked against the wall, piled in corners, and strung from the rafters. The contrast of ham hocks dangling from the ceiling and the body sprawled on the table sends a shiver along my spine. It is enough to make one of the men behind me gag.

I ignore the retreating footsteps, the uneasy shuffling, the sudden hush as I step closer to the table. I ignore everything but the slowing of my pulse and the stilling of my mind—a learned form of concentration in which I push aside all commotion and fear and chaos. I take a long breath through my nose, noting scents of lamp oil, onions, and salt—but no blood, no rot, no vomit—and set my medical bag and riding cape on the floor. Then I undo the buttons at each wrist and roll up my sleeves—first the right, then the left—to my elbows. Inside my bag is a clean, tightly rolled linen apron. It is stained from long use and soft from wear. I pull it out and slide it over my head, then tie it behind my back. I do all of this as I make a curious, roving assessment of the body.

“Moses?”

He steps to my side. “Aye?”

“I’ll need a wash basin with hot water and clean rags.”

He blinks once, confused, then opens his mouth to speak, but I can see him wrestle with the question. He doesn’t want to be disrespectful, but he thinks the orders unnecessary. In the end he can utter only a single word before I cut him off. “But—”

“Yes. I know he’s dead.”

“So why bother cleaning him?”

It is a ruthless question cloaked in simplicity. It marks where his loyalties lie in the scandal that has ripped our community in half. Why clean the body of a criminal? A rapist?

Various grunts and murmurings of assent come from the doorway behind us. Apparently the men chosen by Amos Pollard for this morning’s grisly task are all sympathetic to Rebecca Foster.

“I’m not cleaning him. I am examining him,” I say, matter-of-factly. “And I do it because it is my job.”

A glance over my shoulder proves that the hearth fires are growing, but still, it will be some time before their proffered heat reaches the storeroom. The cold feels damp and malignant, as though it could seep into my clothing. Into my bones. So I rub my hands back and forth across my apron, letting the friction of skin and linen create what little warmth it can.

I decide to put Moses to the test when he returns a few moments later with a small wash basin and a pile of clean rags. It’s my right as a mother, after all, and if he intends to marry my daughter, he can’t show less mettle than Hannah in a situation like this. I need part of him to be tough as leather, fearless like his father. Having his mother’s weak stomach will never do.

“Do you still want to help?” I ask, tilting my chin to the side and giving Moses a look of challenge.

His only sign of uncertainty is a single, hard swallow. “Aye.”

“Then you can assist me.”

His eyes are wary, but he nods. It is enough to please me though, and I reward him with a full, bright smile. The sight seems to fortify Moses, and he stands a little straighter. My husband is fond of saying that I am not generous with my smiles, that they must be earned, but I think that is unfair. There is usually just so little to smile about.

“What can I do?” he asks.

“There are scissors in my bag. Find them please.”

He locates them easily, then stations himself behind me and to the side, ready for additional instructions.

Chunks of ice still cling to Joshua Burgess’s hair and torso but have begun to soften and drip, splashing on the stone floor at my feet. I pull the hair from his mouth and lay it back, exposing the oblong strawberry birthmark at his temple. There can be no questioning the identity of the body now. Burgess is the only man in the Hook with such a mark.

Sections of his shirtwaist and trouser legs were cut away when the men of Hallowell hacked at the ice. But it is his neck, snapped and leaning at an unnatural angle, that draws my gaze. There are rope burns below his jaw, and a ghastly white protrusion—windpipe, most likely—from a vertical split in his neck.

But where is the rope?