wanted an Indian to fag for him, as you might expect, so I was very much on my own. He made sure I knew all the rules, like not wearing a hat in the Yard and not swapping gowns with anyone, so I wouldn’t be boxed—”
“And telling us which seniors to watch out for,” added Horace, with a glance across the tavern at Black Dog Pugh and his minions, who had gathered near the windows to drink and flirt with the innkeeper’s spritely niece. “Pugh or his boys—the thin one is Jasmine Blossom, I think his real name is Jessamy, and the one in the blue coat is Lowth—will send freshmen into town for punch, knowing it’s against the rules, and when they’re caught by the provosts, will deny having done so. Then the fresher gets fined four shillings, which is a great deal, especially in winter with candles to buy.”
“The rumor runs,” contributed Weyountah, “that the neighbors of Pugh’s father back on Barbados all take up a collection, once a year, to keep the Black Dog in Harvard and in the interest of maintaining good order on the island.”
“And the—er—virtue of their daughters. Heaven only knows how he’s remained here long enough to become a junior bachelor—”
“Well, he’s not stupid,” said the Indian, “and I understand he’s made better use of his time here visiting merchants in town and learning of their business than he ever has studying his Latin. Perhaps he only courts their daughters.”
“ Vincant divitiae ,” concluded Horace with a grin, and then coughed violently in a drifting cloud of pipe-smoke from the direction of Pugh and his friends.
When Begbie had gone—with Fairfield’s assurances that he would send Mrs. Adams home in his own chaise—Abigail and Horace told the other two young men of the true course of Horace’s adventure last week: of the assignation with Mrs. Lake, the letters of introduction, the scandalous document, and the carriage-ride that was almost certainly intended to end in Horace’s death. “Can you write out what you recall of the document?” suggested Weyountah at once.
“I think so,” said Horace. “My memory is very good, and because I translated it, I paid particular attention to every word. It wasn’t a treasure-map or anything.”
“Not an obvious one,” said the Indian. “But it might have contained clues—every third word, every fourth word . . .”
“Yes, but unless he can recall every single word that’s of no use,” protested Fairfield.
“No,” agreed Abigail. “Yet ’tis a good idea, and once Horace writes as much of the document as he can recall, some pattern may emerge that strikes one of us that was not evident to him at the time. Take a look at these.” She held out to the others the two mendacious letters, and Weyountah held them where the westering window-light could fall on them most brightly. “They’re complete fabrications, of course, but does anything about them suggest anything to either of you?”
“Good quality ink,” said the Indian at once. “And expensive paper.”
“Moreover, a writer who knew how to cut quills and keep the flow of words going,” pointed out Abigail. “The hand is a confident one, without hesitations or blots. Further, the writer is accustomed to forming complex words: intentions , probity , researches . He knows how to sound like a lawyer or a judge.”
“He certainly convinced our Horace,” said Fairfield with a grin and a gentle nudge at his friend’s shoulder. “What do they say about the pure not seeing anything but purity?”
“With your permission,” interpolated Abigail, “I shall take these two letters back to town with me. John’s away, naturally ,” she added, unable to keep exasperation from her voice— When WASN’T John away when you needed him ?—“but my friend Mr. Revere—the silversmith, you know—has a most acute eye for the details of handwriting and other telltale signs. He may very well see things in these that are hidden from