about this,” Magnus replied, his face stern and dark. “Sarah was a fine girl.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe it! Murdered by a slave? Why? ” He watched the rest of the men getting astride their horses or climbing up into their wagons and heading out with a clatter of reins, wheels, swords and muskets. “There’ll be a dozen boats on that river in a little while.” He gave a quiet grunt. “Ain’t nobody bringin’ anybody back alive , that’s for sure. Be three sets of black ears swingin’ from somebody’s sword, maybe three scalps too, but no skin’s comin’ back alive this night.”
Matthew thought of Sarah Kincannon sitting on the boulder with her nose in the book of Herrick poetry, and her wave and bright smile and how much she reminded him of Berry. If Berry had been suddenly murdered, what would his first reaction be? Grief, of course. Bitter grief. And then…?
And then, he thought, his nature would take control, and he would wish to see the body and note the cause of death with his own two eyes.
“Where might Sarah’s body be?” he asked.
“Maybe in the house or back in the dairyhouse. There’s a chapel just beyond the house over that way. That’s where the bell’s rung from. Could be there.”
“Let’s find out,” said Matthew, who descended the steps and began striding in the indicated direction, aware that Magnus had followed him and sounded like a horse stomping the grass at his heels.
The chapel was a small building made of red bricks, just as the plantation house. There was a steeple with a belltower, and lantern light showed through the windows. Matthew pulled the door open and entered, finding a half-dozen pews inside and a lectern at the front where perhaps Kincannon himself read the Scripture against the background of a tapestry of Jesus on the Cross. In the lamplight and the flickering of two candles on either side of her head was the body of Sarah Kincannon, lying on a table next to the lectern. Her corpse had been covered by white linens up to her chin, her arms beneath the covering, no inch of flesh showing except the face. She appeared to be peacefully sleeping as Matthew approached, but dark red bloodstains had surfaced on the linens at the hollow of the girl’s throat. Her blond hair had been pinned up and gracefully arranged around her head. Matthew saw how pale she was from loss of blood, and how her eyelids were just barely open, the whites of her eyes showing, to defeat the image of a peaceful sleeper. He removed his half-crushed tricorn, in respect for the departed.
“ Sarah ,” Magnus whispered.
He rushed past Matthew like a hurricane to stand beside the table and gaze down forlornly at the corpse. He stood motionlessly except for a pulse beating at his temple, his eyes shocked and watery. “Oh my God,” he said, again in barely a whisper. “Why? Why? ”
He reached out a hand to place his rough fingers gently against the dead girl’s cheek. “ Don’t touch her ,” rasped a wizened voice from the furthest corner of the chapel.
Matthew and Magnus turned toward that corner. A small, slender figure was sitting in the pew there.
“I’m watchin’ o’re her,” said the old woman, who was so black she was nearly made invisible in the gloom. “While I’m watchin’, no one touches Miss Sarah.”
She was wearing a gray dress with a stiff white collar. She had a dark brown scarf wrapped around her head and knotted at the front. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, her eyes deep-set and glinting in the age-weathered visage. Her white hair appeared to be almost gone but for a few fine wisps. Even so, her chin looked as sharp as a carving knife, and one might cut his fingers on the blades of her cheekbones. She stared impassively at the two men, her expression resolute no matter the difference in the color of their skins; she had been left in charge here, and in charge she was.
Matthew knew who she must be. “You’re
Matthew thought of Sarah Kincannon sitting on the boulder with her nose in the book of Herrick poetry, and her wave and bright smile and how much she reminded him of Berry. If Berry had been suddenly murdered, what would his first reaction be? Grief, of course. Bitter grief. And then…?
And then, he thought, his nature would take control, and he would wish to see the body and note the cause of death with his own two eyes.
“Where might Sarah’s body be?” he asked.
“Maybe in the house or back in the dairyhouse. There’s a chapel just beyond the house over that way. That’s where the bell’s rung from. Could be there.”
“Let’s find out,” said Matthew, who descended the steps and began striding in the indicated direction, aware that Magnus had followed him and sounded like a horse stomping the grass at his heels.
The chapel was a small building made of red bricks, just as the plantation house. There was a steeple with a belltower, and lantern light showed through the windows. Matthew pulled the door open and entered, finding a half-dozen pews inside and a lectern at the front where perhaps Kincannon himself read the Scripture against the background of a tapestry of Jesus on the Cross. In the lamplight and the flickering of two candles on either side of her head was the body of Sarah Kincannon, lying on a table next to the lectern. Her corpse had been covered by white linens up to her chin, her arms beneath the covering, no inch of flesh showing except the face. She appeared to be peacefully sleeping as Matthew approached, but dark red bloodstains had surfaced on the linens at the hollow of the girl’s throat. Her blond hair had been pinned up and gracefully arranged around her head. Matthew saw how pale she was from loss of blood, and how her eyelids were just barely open, the whites of her eyes showing, to defeat the image of a peaceful sleeper. He removed his half-crushed tricorn, in respect for the departed.
“ Sarah ,” Magnus whispered.
He rushed past Matthew like a hurricane to stand beside the table and gaze down forlornly at the corpse. He stood motionlessly except for a pulse beating at his temple, his eyes shocked and watery. “Oh my God,” he said, again in barely a whisper. “Why? Why? ”
He reached out a hand to place his rough fingers gently against the dead girl’s cheek. “ Don’t touch her ,” rasped a wizened voice from the furthest corner of the chapel.
Matthew and Magnus turned toward that corner. A small, slender figure was sitting in the pew there.
“I’m watchin’ o’re her,” said the old woman, who was so black she was nearly made invisible in the gloom. “While I’m watchin’, no one touches Miss Sarah.”
She was wearing a gray dress with a stiff white collar. She had a dark brown scarf wrapped around her head and knotted at the front. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, her eyes deep-set and glinting in the age-weathered visage. Her white hair appeared to be almost gone but for a few fine wisps. Even so, her chin looked as sharp as a carving knife, and one might cut his fingers on the blades of her cheekbones. She stared impassively at the two men, her expression resolute no matter the difference in the color of their skins; she had been left in charge here, and in charge she was.
Matthew knew who she must be. “You’re
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