2. Correspondence
Her voice was warm and melodic, always playful.
"Ichabod."
She approached him where he sat by the window and draped her arms around him, leaning down to kiss the top of his head.
"Still dreaming by the window, my little love?"
"Look, Mother," he said happily, pointing. "A cardinal."
"A baby cardinal. See how small it is?"
They remained there together listening to the melodic high-pitched chirping and gazing at the tiny patch of bright red that was perched on the branch of the tree right outside of Ichabod's bedroom window, he sitting in the chair before the sill leaning forward with his arms folded on top of it, she standing behind him with her arms around him. The little bird fluttered its wings but didn't take flight, and Ichabod wondered if the bird was only just learning to fly. It turned its head this way and that in quick, jerky movements, singing all the while. After a few minutes it took wing and flew off.
"I know how hard it is for you to be stuck inside all day," she said, running a tender hand through his hair. "At least it finally stopped raining now."
"Yes."
"Did you finish reading all the books you borrowed from the library?"
He nodded. "I read one of them twice."
"That's my little scholar," she laughed warmly. "I'll go into town tomorrow while you're in school and see if I can find some new ones that you haven't read yet."
She ruffled his hair then patted his arm.
"Come. Now that it's stopped raining we can go for a little walk outside. You'll have to leave off lying in the grass today but it's nice and warm out now and we can still pick flowers. What do you think?"
"Alright."
During the months following his mother's death and the injury to his hands Ichabod continued to pick wildflowers everyday in the afternoons when he returned from school. Often he would sit on the grass in the clearing where they'd spent their afternoons, tying the flowers he'd picked into bouquets and waiting for her to appear again. When the sun began to set he returned home, leaving the bouquets behind so she would find them and know that he'd waited for her as long as he could. Sometimes his father came out to look for him before the sun began to set and dragged him home by the ear when he found him, scolding him for idling about in the garden or the woods.
Now as he looked back on those days he wondered how he so easily fooled himself. Somehow, in the weeks following that morning he woke up with a clear mind, he managed to deny reality and convince himself that she had gone away somewhere for some reason but would return soon; so he waited for her each day. His mother had filled the house with warmth and laughter and beauty. After she was gone life became cold, austere and severe; loveless. It was filled with beatings and scoldings, criticism and cruelty, and his foolish daydreams were never going to change that.
"How old were you when you left home?"
Katrina's voice brought him back to the present once more.
"Hmm? Oh, I…was fifteen. I had no money, only one bag with clothes and books, and some food. It took weeks for me to reach New York."
"You didn't travel on foot, did you?"
"Of course. I couldn't pay for a coach."
"When did you start off? Was it in the spring?"
"Yes. I wasn't so foolish as to set off in the middle of winter. It was warm enough out and I traveled many miles each day. On clear mild nights I could sleep outside if I couldn't find a place with a roof, but if I found an open barn along the way I would take shelter in it. Sometimes, especially when I reached larger towns, I offered to work in exchange for a meal and lodging for the night. Eventually I stowed away on one of the boats bringing food and cargo down the Hudson River to New York, and finally made it to the city."
"Then you at least met some people who were kind to you along the way?"
"Some," he murmured, recalling those days of wandering, nights of sleeping in strange places, often with no shelter from the elements. Fear and anxiety were constant companions, even when he encountered hospitality and kindness. "I was especially lucky when I first arrived in the city. There were a couple of people that were very good to me and they made a crucial difference. Nevertheless it was all very frightening."
"I can imagine," she answered softly.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her arm draped around his shoulders and her gentle fingers running through his hair.
"Your father never came to look for you?"
"No. I don't know that he had any idea where to look for me." He sighed and opened his eyes. "At least not at that time. It doesn't matter really."
"In his own way I'm sure he worried and wondered about you."
Ichabod sighed again and stared into the empty space in front of him. Melancholy settled in his chest like a great weight. He found himself wishing he had kept that newspaper instead of leaving it in the victim's coat pocket as evidence. The High Constable didn't care a bit about evidence, nor did the Burgomaster or anyone else, and he felt an odd longing to read his father's obituary again. He'd only read through it once before tucking the paper back into the coat pocket. Now he wanted to read and reread it, to absorb everything that the newspaper said about him, to attempt to comprehend how other people could hold this image of his father as a pillar of a community when all he knew was the tyrant.
His eyes shut again and he tried to picture the page, hoping to conjure the words and make them appear before his closed eyes. All he could see was the headline, its large bold letters. The obituary had mentioned him, he remembered that, though the mention was quite surprising and seemed strange to him.
Katrina squeezed his shoulders then withdrew her arm from around him. He opened his eyes upon feeling the sudden lack of her touch and support.
"It's growing late and I need to finish preparing dinner," she announced, rising to her feet. "I left poor Stephen to look after the food on the fire."
"I'm not very hungry," Ichabod muttered dejectedly.
"I cooked chicken for dinner tonight, just the way you like it, and you're eating it. No matter what is happening, it will do you no good to skip meals."
"Stephen will be eating most of that chicken."
She threw him a playfully cross look then bustled out of the room. Ichabod remained sitting on the couch for a few minutes, staring after her. Then he stood up and followed her to the kitchen.
oooOooo
His investigation of the attack on the Hartford victim took the usual course unfortunately, in that Ichabod's superiors grew impatient with the fact that he still didn't even have one suspect and insisted that he was wasting his time with his 'experimentations' in criminal detection. After four days he was asked to appear before the High Constable.
"We have many unsolved cases, Constable Crane," he told him sternly. "There are criminals to be apprehended and the streets have to be patrolled, especially with the Eldridge trial coming before the court at the end of the month. We're going to be charged with keeping order, both during those proceedings and afterward when the citizens run amok because they don't like the verdict; a task that the military should be charged with, not the constabulary, if you ask me. I don't want you wasting time on a lost cause. I've already humored you and allowed the body to be buried at cost to the city rather than burned. The Burgomaster was not at all pleased to hear about that."
"With all due respect this case is not a lost cause yet," Ichabod replied in a strong voice, determined to make his opinion known but keenly aware that he was dangerously close to crossing a line again. The Eldridge criminal trial was very high profile. There was coverage in the newspapers every day and the papers didn't merely report the facts; they sensationalized the case and the people involved. Due to the brutal and shocking nature of the crime for which Eldridge was being tried, and the involvement of several powerful upper class men in his defense, the public was in an uproar and the journalists were fueling it. Every citizen in New York, whatever side they took, seemed to feel invested in the case and its outcome. High Constable Warwick was correct; the task of keeping order during the trial would be huge. But as far as Ichabod was concerned that did not make this other human being's violent murder any less relevant or important, though he was as yet unidentified. "Naturally the witness or witnesses to this crime will not come forward but…"
"If there were any witnesses," his superior corrected him, placing heavy emphasis on the word 'if'.
"I beg pardon, but there is a very good chance that at least one person witnessed this crime. The victim's shoes were stolen. It's possible that the person who took them saw what happened."
"It's also possible that the person who stole his shoes was the killer. Or that the thief merely stumbled upon the body long after the murder had occurred."
"That is true and I am taking all of that into consideration. But I should like the opportunity to investigate each one of those possibilities…"
"You have been investigating this for nearly a week and you have no suspects, no witnesses, no leads."
"I've written a letter to the constabulary of Hartford already, and am waiting for a reply," Ichabod continued, doing his best to mask his frustration. Four days was not nearly a week, after all. "Perhaps we can track down someone there who knew him, and more importantly knew he was coming to New York. At the very least we can identify the body then. But perhaps we can also shed light…"
"You've already written them?"
"Yes."
The High Constable frowned. "You should have asked permission before contacting any authorities that are outside of this jurisdiction. Or at the very least kept me apprised of your activities."
Ichabod fell silent. It had not occurred to him that he needed to gain permission; and given that the High Constable considered his activities a waste of time he never guessed that he'd want to be kept apprised of anything that he did, short of bringing before him the men that he arrested and otherwise staying out of his way.
"Still," his boss continued after a pause. "Perhaps they will be able to figure out who this is and you will finally let it be. You have not received a response yet?"
"No, but I only wrote three days ago. The journey itself is several days in only one direction, so it will be a few days for them to receive it, respond and for the response to reach me."
His superior eyed him intently for a few minutes. Then he nodded and waved a hand dismissively.
"In the mean time I'm ordering you to suspend any further investigation on this case. Stay on your beat and in the present while you're waiting on your response."
"I shall," Ichabod replied, suppressing a sigh.
Difficult and maddening as it was Ichabod kept to his beat and refrained from actively pursuing his investigation while on duty. After another week or so he still hadn't received a response from Hartford's constabulary. But on the twenty-second of March he received a letter from a man named Geoffrey Latham. Mr. Latham said very little about himself but claimed to have known his father well. He advised that he had urgent business with Ichabod and would be arriving in New York on the heels of his letter, by the morning of the twenty-fourth of March.
oooOooo
"I'll open up the guest room and have it spruced up," Katrina volunteered enthusiastically as she continued to hurry about, setting the table and preparing supper. The prospect of an out-of-town visitor was apparently exciting to her.
"He may have already made arrangements to stay at an inn," Ichabod replied. He sat in a chair at the table and as he talked he watched her bustle about the kitchen, now at the counter slicing sausages, now moving over to the table to set down a plate of freshly baked rolls, now back at the hearth lifting the lid over the pot in which tonight's specialty was cooking and expertly giving it a few stirs with a long spoon. "As I said, he didn't provide any information in his letter. Only that he knew my father and he had urgent business with me."
"Did he mention anything about the man that you are still trying to identify?"
"No, but his presence in New York may provide an opportunity to exhume the body."
"Well, if Mr. Latham hasn't made arrangements for lodging he will certainly be welcome here."
Ichabod frowned. Katrina sidled up to him and leaned down, planting a kiss on his cheek.
"I know it is unexpected and may be somewhat inconvenient but I don't mind, Ichabod. Really."
A wan smile played about his lips and he turned to look at her then nodded. "There was a time when I was an inconvenient guest; although I was somewhat expected."
She smiled warmly and leaned down to kiss him again, this time on the lips. He began to curl an arm around her waist, intending to pull her onto his lap but she slipped away before he could grasp her. She laughed playfully and glided back to the hearth.
"Later," she mouthed to him as young Stephen Masbath entered the kitchen softly.
"Do you need help?"
"Supper is nearly ready. Sit down and I'll serve it in just a minute…oh! I meant to buy cider…"
"I'll go out and buy it," the boy offered eagerly. "There is a shop around the corner that should still be open."
"Thank you, Stephen."
"Here." Ichabod reached into his pocket and drew out money. Stephen took it and hurried out the front door.
Katrina grabbed two pot-holders and removed the large pot from the hearth. A cloud of steam half obscured her face momentarily as she lifted the lid and set it aside. She removed what looked like a large cooked leaf and set it on the counter, then drained off the water.
"That is one thing I miss about Sleepy Hollow," she remarked, beginning to mash whatever had been cooking in the large pot. "Clean water from a well. Even boiling it and allowing it to cool before drinking it doesn't improve the taste of New York City water. It's alright for cooking but it's much too brackish to drink."
"A good majority of New Yorkers drink gin for that very reason."
She made a face. "I tried gin once, at one of my cousin's parties. It was vile."
"I agree," he laughed.
He watched her stir in butter and milk.
"What did you cook?"
"Stamppot. I hope you like it," she answered, adding in the slices of sausage and mixing. "A lot of Dutch food is so much more…sour…than the English food you're probably used to. But this won't be."
"I've liked everything else you've tried out on me in these past three months," he told her, smiling tenderly. "Speaking of which, three days from now will make exactly three months that we've been married. I don't know if 'anniversary' is the proper term but…"
His wife set aside the pot momentarily and came over to him. He reached for her waist and this time she allowed him to pull her onto his lap. She laced her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his.
"Happy Anniversary," she whispered between kisses.
"We'll have to plan something special," he murmured, caressing her cheek.
The sound of the front door opening signaled Stephen's return, and Katrina quickly slipped off of Ichabod's lap and went back to stirring the stamppot. Stephen entered the kitchen with a large jug of cider.
"We may have a guest staying with us in a day or two," Ichabod told him when they were all seated and Katrina had served each of them a heaping plate of what appeared to be potatoes and green leafy vegetables mashed together, with sausage mixed in.
"A family member?"
"No, he's a visitor to New York, who is coming here on business."
"He's choosing a bad time to come to the city, isn't he?" the boy observed quietly.
Ichabod raised his head abruptly and stared at Stephen quizzically.
"With the Eldridge trial coming up so soon, I mean," he explained. "The mood in the streets is quite heated these days."
"Ah. Yes." Ichabod stole a cautious glance at Katrina. He'd been very careful thus far to refrain from discussing this gruesome crime in front of her, worried that it would upset her by its very nature, but he'd never spoken of his concern to Stephen. Later, when he had a moment, he would have to talk to him about it.
"Tempers will be flaring even more when the trial begins," she remarked, meeting his gaze. "You needn't be so over-protective of me, Ichabod. I don't need to be shielded from everything. Anyway, it's impossible to go to any corner of this city without hearing people talking about the case, and I read the papers."
"The confounded papers are making things worse," he muttered gruffly, stabbing a slice of sausage with his fork. "Those articles are one-sided and in addition to swaying the public they will bias the twelve men who are to serve on the jury. Fair trial indeed."
"As readers we're as much at fault I suppose. We buy and read those papers after all, and we allow ourselves to be swayed one way or the other rather than truly scrutizining the facts and drawing our own conclusions. But even here in New York I don't imagine the average person has ever encountered such a hideous crime, so people are captivated by it even while it repels them. You have not been involved in any way, have you?"
He shook his head. "Mr. Eldridge has many important and powerful friends, and I am considered a nuisance. My superiors do not find that to be a desirable combination. They don't credit my methods of fact-finding and detection anyway."
She set down her fork and reached over to him, grasping his forearm and squeezing it affectionately. "The fools."
"That is politics for you," Ichabod sighed.
"How long is the trial expected to last?"
"I don't know. Maybe two or three days. If Mr. Eldridge didn't have so many rich and powerful friends pulling strings and influencing the men who write those articles he would have been handed over to a mob by now. I don't for a moment condone mob scenes; I only wish that it wasn't merely privilege alone that was preventing it."
"Yes, I've noticed the shift in view lately. A few weeks ago the articles expressed sympathy for that poor girl. Now they are…they have been painting a different picture of her. It's repulsive."
Ichabod nodded, frowning. "It is indeed. And the jury will most likely acquit."
"Do you believe he's guilty, Ichabod?"
"I don't know honestly. I've had nothing to do with this case and I have not reviewed the evidence at all. With all my heart I wish for that poor young woman to have justice, even if she is not alive to see it."
"As do I," she said softly, giving his arm another squeeze then releasing it.
"But I do not want to see an innocent man punished just so people can feel that they've had retribution either. It's the methods that I object to. Defaming this young woman's name and reputation so vilely…it's reprehensible. Even if the things they say about her are true, and I do not believe for a moment that they are, it does not dismiss or lessen what happened to her. Her background does not absolve her attacker of anything. Nobody deserves to experience what she..." Ichabod trailed off when he caught sight of the amused look on Katrina's face. He sighed. "There, you see? This is not a pleasant topic for dinner conversation at all and here we are caught up in it."
"You're a very passionate debater, Ichabod," she replied and laughed mirthfully. But there was admiration in her eyes too.
"I'm sorry," Stephen spoke up sheepishly. "It's my fault. I didn't mean to…"
"It's alright." Ichabod reached over and patted his arm reassuringly. "I suppose it's on everyone's mind."
Katrina smiled at Stephen warmly. "Besides, you only made a passing remark. I'm the one who actually initiated the conversation."
"Well, I suppose you couldn't resist after the look I gave you," Ichabod said with an amused smile. "I should know better than to challenge you, Katrina."
"Anyway, if and when our guest arrives we'll make him very comfortable."
Ichabod nodded, refraining from expressing the sentiment that a part of him hoped Mr. Latham would choose to lodge at an inn for the length of his stay. It wasn't that he begrudged offering hospitality to an out-of-town guest. But he felt anxious and wary about the fact that Mr. Latham had said so little about himself in his letter. Other than the fact that he claimed to have known the Reverend Crane very well Ichabod had no idea who he was or what his vocation was, yet alone what he could possibly want from him.