Thoreau at Devil's Perch

Book 1: Henry David Thoreau Mystery

by B.B. Oak

Genres: Biographical; Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Henry David Thoreau leaves the seclusion of Walden Pond to help investigate a series of murders in the first in B. B. Oak’s fascinating new historical mystery series, set against the bucolic backdrop of 19th century New England. The lush, overgrown banks of Massachusetts’s Assabet river are the ideal place for Dr. Adam Walker to find coveted medicinal plants for his remedies. But on one balmy August morning he finds something very different. A stranger, identifying himself as Henry David Thoreau of nearby Walden Pond, approaches and entreats Adam to accompany him upriver. He has discovered the body of a young black man at the base of the cliff known as Devil’s Perch. As they examine the broken corpse and the surrounding scene, both men become convinced that the unfortunate victim was dead long before he fell. Yet the coroner’s jury insists otherwise, dismissing the matter as an accident. Angered by the injustice, Adam and his lovely cousin Julia Bell agree to assist Thoreau in investigating. Adam notes in his new friend all the makings of a great detective—an encyclopedic knowledge of the natural world, uncanny observational skills, a sharp instinct for detecting human foibles. As the case progresses, the mysteries only deepen and there is no mistaking the brutal slaying of a womanizing army captain as anything other than the coldest murder. Journeying from their tranquil village to Boston’s most disreputable district, they gradually uncover the monstrous truth—even while a vicious killer prepares to end their inquiry for good… Advance Praise For Thoreau At Devil’s Perch! “A favorite literary figure shows an unexpected flair for detection in this historical mystery.  Original and charming.” —Laura Joh Rowland, author of The Incense Game “Well researched, captivating and compelling until the very end, Thoreau at Devil’s Perch is both mystery and love story during a time that appeared deceptively simple. Through their diaries, the main characters, Adam and Julia become to feel like old friends you want to revisit again and again. I’ve never been a fan of using historical figures in fiction—B.B. Oak has changed my mind. Well done!” —Anna Loan-Wilsey, author of Anything But Civil “B. B. Oak brings Thoreau’s nineteenth-century world to vivid life in this intriguing puzzler that will keep you guessing to the terrifying end.” —Victoria Thompson, author of Murder in Chelsea

Release date: November 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

Monday, August 3rd, 1846

This morning I glanced up from my search for medicinal plants along the Assabet River and was startled to see the sun-browned face of a stranger appear through a screen of beech leaves. He quickly but calmly communicated that he had found the broken body of a man on the rocks just upriver and sought to alert the local constable.

“Are you certain he is dead?” I said.

“He appeared quite dead to me,” the stranger said. “His head had a severe wound, and when I laid my hand upon his shoulder he did not move.”

I identified myself as a doctor and urged we get to the man immediately, explaining that I have known cases where all visible signs of life had ceased and the patient was yet revived.

Without further ado we started upriver Indian file, the stranger leading the way. His homespun suit of greenish-brown blended well with the foliage, and it was no wonder he had come upon me unawares. We exchanged few words as we marched, only stating our names and where we resided. Mr. Thoreau’s stride was long for his short stature, and within scarce minutes we came to an area beneath the precipitous face of a cliff overlooking the river. We hastened to the body of a man sprawled on the rocks at water’s edge, scattering a murder of crows pecking at the back of his head.

The man lay on his stomach, one arm beneath him and the other spread wide and at an angle that led me to conclude it had been dislocated from the shoulder. Both the tibia and fibula of the right leg had thrust clear through muscle and flesh, and the shattered ends showed white where they had pierced the trouser leg. A two-inch-round section of his skull was stove in, and blood had amassed and dried around the wound, with heavy clots clinging to his dark hair. Placed my hand on his carotid artery to check for a pulse. Found none. His skin was faintly warm to the touch, but skin temperature could not help me determine time of death, as he was lying in the hot morning sun. Mr. Thoreau and I turned him over and saw that he was a young Negro.

I bent over the corpse, lifted the arm that had not been dislocated and rotated it. “The body is stiff, but the rigor mortis is fading. This indicates he died sometime yesterday,” I told Thoreau.

He glanced up at the high cliff face. “The obvious conclusion is that his death was caused by a fall from up there.”

“Obvious but possibly erroneous,” said I. “Although a fall from such a height would certainly result in death, I doubt it caused this man’s.”

Thoreau’s deep-set eyes widened. “Do you? Why?”

“There is no blood around the leg wound, for one thing. If such a severe break had occurred when the man was still alive, the severed arteries would have pumped out a profuse quantity of blood.”

“Are you proposing, Dr. Walker, that he was already dead when he went over the cliff?”

“I am almost sure of it,” I said. “There is clotted blood in his hair from the head injury he received, yet none on the rocks beneath his head, leading me to conclude he was struck a mortal blow elsewhere. The instrument used was round and blunt.”

Thoreau nodded and studied the dead man, his gaze compassionate yet probing. “Note how the backs of his fine boots are caked with dirt, doctor. That indicates to me he was dragged with his heels digging into the ground. We will likely see evidence of this atop the cliff. Let us go investigate posthaste.”

We made our way up and to the side of the sheer cliff face by way of a steep and narrow path through the woods. When we reached the clearing on top, Thoreau cautioned me to walk no farther.

“Allow me to inspect the ground,” he said, “before we tread upon it.” He pulled a magnifying glass from the deep pocket of his jacket.“I use it to examine plant specimens,” he explained. He then proceeded to hold it over the marks in the damp, bare soil.

After a few minutes had passed I admittedly lost patience. “Well? Did you find any clews?”

He stood back and pointed. “Wagon tracks,” he said.

He had stated the obvious, and I was not impressed. But as he elucidated, I grew more so.

“Here the wagon tracks stop,” he said, “and two parallel grooves begin. They lead to the near edge of the cliff, and I surmise they were made by the dead man’s boot heels gouging the earth as his body was dragged. Between the two grooves are several very distinct footprints, more deeply depressed in the hind than the forepart. These impressions must have been made by the man who was hauling the body. He would have been walking backwards, with his hands gripping the victim under the arms as he pulled him along.”

“I can well imagine the perpetrator’s actions as you describe them,” I said. “Unfortunately, shoe prints such as those could be made by any man.”

“Look more closely, Dr. Walker. The soles of the footwear have the thickness of boots rather than shoes, and there are two deep indentations in the right sole. Should we find the owner of a boot that bears matching marks, we will have found the murderer, or at least the man who threw the Negro’s body over the cliff. But how can we preserve such telling evidence?”

“Might not casts of the prints be made with plaster of Paris?”

“An excellent suggestion, if only we had some.”

“My cousin Julia Bell does. She had a bag of plaster delivered to her in Plumford just yesterday,” I said. “She is an artist and uses it to make face masks.”

It was decided that Thoreau would go to Plumford, alert the constable, and obtain the plaster from Julia whilst I further examined the body. I told him where I had left my gig and how to most quickly get to town.

“Look for a big white house with a picket fence overlooking the Green,” I further informed him. “It is the residence of Dr. Silas Walker, our grandfather. Both Julia and I are staying with him at present. Pray tell my cousin as little as possible, for I do not want her involved in this foul crime.”

“I will be as discreet as I can honestly be,” Thoreau said and hurried off.

I descended the cliff path and went back to the dead man to inspect him more closely. His clothing was of cheap quality but of the latest style, more suitable for city than country wear. It was not the sort of apparel I would expect a runaway slave to be wearing. He might have been a freeman from Boston. The pockets of his yellow frock coat, scarlet vest, and boldly checkered trousers were empty of coin, banknotes, or papers of any kind, which suggested to me that his possessions had been taken along with his life. But how had this black stranger ended up at the bottom of a cliff deep in the woods of our township?

Used my pocketknife to slit open his clothes to better examine him for further injuries. He was in the prime of his youth with clean trunk and limbs and no sign of disease or debility. In addition to the broken leg, dislocated shoulder, and head wound I had first seen, one ankle was shattered and three ribs on his right side fractured. As I worked I could not help but be aware of the warm sun on my shoulders, the cliff swallows swooping over my bent head, and the soothing sound of the river flowing beside me. It was altogether too lovely a summer day to be lying broken and dead on the rocks, and I felt deep regret that such a healthy young man had come to such a brutal end in the summer of his own life.

Finding no further injuries or signs of a struggle on his body, I gathered an armful of fresh ferns from the woods and covered his face to keep off the bluebottle flies. I heard a gun go off in the near distance but paid it little mind, for hunters frequent the area. Eventually the town constable found me. Mr. Beers’s trudge along the river had caused him to sweat profusely, and his face was so flushed that I sat him down in the shade, soaked my handkerchief in the river, and applied it to the back of his neck.

“I am getting too fat for this post,” he panted.

Could not refute him. Eating too much and sitting on a cobbler’s bench all day have not made Beers very fit for constable duties. Yet the townsmen reelect him to the office year after year for he is well liked, and his duties are not all that taxing most of the time. Mischief-making boys or an occasional rowdy drunk cause him the most trouble.

He would not go near the corpse nor even look at it. “I’ll just set here till the inquest commences,” he said. He informed me that the Town Coroner, Fred Daggett, would be along as soon as he found someone to mind his store and he could go round up a jury.

As we waited I asked Beers if he recalled mending a boot with deep cuts on the sole. He did not. I told him about the imprints Mr. Thoreau and I had discovered upon Devil’s Perch. He expressed only the mildest interest. I suggested to him that he should go take a look at the prints for himself. Apparently he did not want to hoist his bulk up the side of the cliff, for he suggested to me in return that I should desist from telling him how to perform his constableship duties.

Before our conversation became more heated, Mr. Daggett arrived with his jury of six Plumford citizens, one of them being the town undertaker. Elijah Phyfe also came. Although he had no legal role to play in this particular proceeding, I suppose he had the right to be present as he is the town’s Justice of the Peace and chief magistrate. Coroner Daggett swore in his jury, and they convened around the body.

Mr. Thoreau returned by way of the footpath, and he and I testified. The jury listened to us most patiently and attentively as we presented our evidence. After hearing us conclude that we believed this was a case of murder, they all walked downriver, out of earshot, and conferred with Justice Phyfe. In less than a quarter-hour, they came back, and Coroner Daggett informed us the decision they had reached was Death by Accident. When I voiced my objection, Justice Phyfe raised his hand like a Roman senator.

“Now, Adam, do not be pigheaded about this,” he said. “This unfortunate buck, unfamiliar with these parts, couldn’t see where he was going in the dark and walked off the cliff. Simple as that.”

“But the moon was near full last night!” Henry said. No one paid him any mind.

“A runaway slave in stolen clothes, no doubt,” Coroner Daggett said. “No need to make this more complicated than it ought to be. The inquest is closed.”

“It is your minds that are closed,” Mr. Thoreau declared and without another word marched off.

Justice Phyfe, watching him disappear into the woods with narrowed eyes, asked me who he was. I told him all I knew about Henry David Thoreau was that he came from the neighboring town of Concord. One of the jury members, originally from Concord, commented that the Thoreau family, though respectable enough, was of no major consequence there. Justice Phyfe lost interest.

A moment later the Rev. Mr. Upson came down the cliff path. The fowling piece over his arm, I surmised, was the gun I had heard go off earlier. His satchel looked heavy with game, and I have seen him hunting in the area before. Reckon the poor man has little better to do with his time since losing both his wife and his pulpit.

“Best you move on, Mr. Upson,” Phyfe said. “There has been an unfortunate accident here.”

Upson gave the corpse a cursory glance. “So I just heard.”

“Where did you hear this?” Phyfe demanded.

“Above.”

Phyfe raised his eyebrows. “You mean to say God informed you?”

“If I had meant to say that, I would have.” Upson pointed to the top of the cliff. “I came across Miss Bell and a man called Thoreau up there, and they informed me that a dead man lay below.”

Upon learning that Julia had accompanied Thoreau to Devil’s Perch, I drew in my breath but said nothing.

The reverend offered to lead us in prayer, but Justice Phyfe said there was no time for that and turned to the undertaker. “Make arrangements to remove the body as soon as possible, Mr. Jackson, before anyone else from town comes upon it.”

“And who will pay for my services?” Jackson wanted to know.

“Oh, what the hell, I will,” Phyfe said. “But I’ll be damned if I am going to pay for a funeral service as well.”

“You are already damned, sir,” the Rev. Mr. Upson said, “if you can speak so profanely in the company of a clergyman.”

Shrugging, Justice Phyfe looked away without begging his pardon, and Mr. Upson stalked off. It occurred to me that Phyfe would not have risked being so dismissive toward the reverend were he still minister of the Congregational Church. Upson used to hold great sway in town, but times change, even in Plumford. After ten years of hearing Upson preach sin and damnation, his parishioners grew weary of his rigid Calvinist doctrine, and he was voted out of the pulpit, replaced by a Unitarian minister with a more tolerant view of humanity.

The Coroner’s Jury having no further use for me, I hurried back up the cliff to find Julia. She was waiting by the gig, eager to hear about the inquest. I told her as little as I could and made it clear that such sordid business was no business of hers. We talked but little on the drive home.

I wonder if I spoke to her too harshly. In truth, I do not know how to communicate with Julia anymore. We have done so little of it over the years. After her father hauled her off to Europe we were forbidden to write to each other, and when we were old enough to post letters on our own, we both wrote in such a stilted, formal style that we left off our endeavor to recapture our childhood intimacy entirely. It appeared that we had simply outgrown each other.

Even so, when I saw Julia alight from the train at the Concord station ten days ago, I was drawn to her as though she were a lodestone. And she seemed just as drawn to me. She had not seen me since I was a boy, yet she headed straight to me without the slightest hesitation and took hold of both my hands. We would have known each other anywhere, no matter how long apart.

“Hello, Lewis,” she said.

“Hello, Clark,” I replied with a laugh. It delighted me that we had just used the secret names we’d called each other as children.

Julia remained as grave as she’d been as a girl whenever we’d made plans to follow in the footsteps of our heroes Lewis and Clark. “I have often recalled our grand adventure over the years,” she said. “Sometimes I think it was but a dream.”

“Oh, it was real enough,” I said. “And to think we almost made it to California.”

Now she laughed too. “Give or take several thousand miles. I see you have grown up very tall, cousin.”

“And you have grown up very beautiful,” I told her, for it was nothing but the truth. We stood there and took each other in until the stage driver hollered over to us to get aboard or get left behind.

And now Molly has just hollered up the stairs that dinner is ready. Hope she has prepared a dish more palatable than yesterday’s mutton hash. Such hope has no basis, of course. Molly is a most inept cook. No matter. She has a kind heart, and that is the best trait a hired girl—or anyone—can have. Besides, should I crave a good meal I need only ride over to Tuttle Farm and have Gran serve me up a heaping plate of her tasty victuals. But then I would not have the pleasure of Julia’s company at table. Thus I shall dine on mutton hash or worse without complaint this noon.

Monday, 3 August

What a remarkable morning I have had. It commenced in quite an ordinary manner, however, with a visit to Grandfather’s chamber. Finding him awake, I changed the dressing on his leg. His wound is healing well. Brought him up breakfast on a tray, and he consumed the yolk of a coddled egg and two pieces of milk toast. His appetite is also improving. Offered to read some Poe to him, but he ordered me to take the morning air instead. After asking Molly to keep an eye on our dear invalid, I went across the road to the Green, where I settled myself upon a bench and opened my sketchbook.

Then lo! Grandfather’s old gig came to a stop in front of the house, but Adam was not driving it. A man I had never seen before was holding Napoleon’s reins. Fearing Adam had met with an accident, I sprang up from the bench and ran to the carriage.

“Calm yourself, Miss Bell. Your cousin has come to no harm,” the stranger told me. He jumped off the gig with the sprightliness of a grasshopper and landed directly before me. Our eyes easily met, for he was close to my own height, and his steady gaze calmed me more than his words. “Dr. Walker has sent me to Plumford to fetch the constable. Might you direct me to him?”

I automatically pointed down the road toward Mr. Beers’s shoe shop. “Pray why is my cousin in need of a constable?” I demanded. “And how do you know who I am? I am sure I have never met you before.” I would not have forgotten such striking features, especially his inordinately large eyes and nose.

“No, we have never been introduced,” he replied, ignoring my first question and removing his straw hat. His thatch of light brown hair could have used a good trim and combing. “My name is Henry David Thoreau, and I met up with Dr. Walker this morning by the Assabet River. He informed me that his cousin Julia Bell was an artist.” He gestured toward the sketchbook I was clutching to my bosom. “I deduced from the way you hastened to the doctor’s gig with such concern upon your countenance that you were she.” His intonations had a lofty, educated ring, at odds with his countrified appearance. “Dr. Walker also told me you were in possession of a supply of plaster of Paris you might put at my disposal.”

That Adam would suggest such a thing rather astounded me. “For what purpose?”

“One that need not concern you, Miss Bell.”

“On the contrary, anything to do with my cousin concerns me, Mr. Thoreau. And if you want me to give you the plaster, you must tell me why he wants Constable Beers.”

“The reason may distress you.”

“You are distressing me far more by keeping me ignorant!”

“Yes, I believe that I am.” He gave me an appraising look, his orbs like luminous convex lenses. “You seem a stable enough sort,” he concluded. “Therefore I will be frank with you. Dr. Walker and I discovered the corpse of a young black man at the foot of a local cliff he referred to as Devil’s Perch, and I have come to fetch the constable.”

“But why the plaster of Paris?”

“To make casts of footprints we observed on the top of the cliff. We believe they were left by the murderer.”

“The murderer?” I took a step back. My foot landed in a rut in the road, and I stumbled.

“Hold on if you feel faint,” Mr. Thoreau said, extending his arm toward me.

Ignoring his offer, I regained my balance and gave him a level look. “I am not in the habit of fainting, I assure you. Tell me more about this murderer.”

“I have already told you more than your cousin would care to have you know. Now I must go inform the constable. Might I pick up the plaster of Paris upon my return?”

“Have you ever made casts before, Mr. Thoreau?”

“No, and I would much appreciate instructions from you before I depart.”

“Better yet, I will accompany you to Devil’s Perch and make them myself,” I said. “I am proficient at it.”

“I have no doubt you are. But this is no job for a young lady. Just ready the supplies for me if you please.” After issuing this curt directive, he turned and walked off in the direction of Constable Beers’s shop.

A short time later he came back to the gig and did not look too surprised to see me waiting in it, reins in hand. Neither did he look too happy about it. “I would prefer that you did not come with me, Miss Bell,” he said.

“And if I preferred that you did not come with me, Mr. Thoreau,” I countered, “I could have driven myself to Devil’s Perch without you.”

“So you could have,” he allowed. “I suppose there’s no need to waste time discussing it further.”

With that, he climbed into the gig so quickly I barely had time to make room for him on the seat. I handed over the reins to him, for in truth I was not sure how to get to Devil’s Perch, much less how to drive a carriage. “Huddup!” he told Napoleon, and off we went. A short time later, after taking a meandering country road and then a narrow cart path that wound round and up a steep hill, we arrived at the top of the cliff. Adam was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is my cousin?” I demanded.

“He is with the body below,” Mr. Thoreau said. “It would be best if you did not venture to look down there.”

Ignoring his advice, I alighted from the gig and went as close to the edge of the precipice as I dared to. Looking down from such a great height made my head all swimmy, but I quashed my qualms as my eyes searched for Adam. When I spotted him I felt the urge to cry out to him, but it did not seem fitting to break the almost palpable quietude. Sunlight lay over the scene below like a glaze of varnish, making the river shimmer and Adam’s bared head of auburn hair glow. He was kneeling before the corpse, his broad back blocking my view of it, except for the legs. The sight of the dead man’s boots, shiny as seal skin, made me exceedingly sad.

I wondered if Adam was praying over the body. I still do. How odd that I do not know what beliefs my cousin holds concerning God and the Afterlife. As close as we were as children, now we are almost strangers. Even so, I feel as though I know Adam to his marrow and always will. He is, after all, my nearest and dearest kin, and nothing can ever change that.

I left the bluff, and Mr. Thoreau and I unloaded the supplies I had brought: a large bag of gypsum powder, a jug of water, a bowl and mixing spoon, and a small shovel. I then commenced mixing the plaster, stirring the gypsum with water until the composition became as thick as cream, with nary a lump in it.

“I wager you make excellent pancake batter,” Mr. Thoreau said.

Had the circumstances been less somber, I would have laughed. “I have no culinary skills whatsoever,” I admitted, carefully pouring the mixture into four footprints. “It will take a while for the plaster to harden.”

As we waited I attempted to engage Mr. Thoreau in polite conversation. “Where do you reside?” I asked him.

“By a pond,” he said.

“You are being very mysterious, Mr. Thoreau.”

“I do not mean to be.”

“Then pray tell me the name of this pond of yours.”

“Walden Pond is not mine, Miss Bell. I do not even own any land surrounding it. I built my cabin on a friend’s woodlot.”

“I have never heard of Walden Pond,” I said. “Where is it located?”

“In the township of Concord, only a few miles from the railway depot.”

“Ah, that I am familiar with. I debarked at the Concord depot less than a fortnight ago,” I said. Mr. Thoreau did not ask me what brought me to the area, but I told him anyway. “When I received a letter from my cousin Adam informing me that our grandfather had been seriously injured, I immediately set forth from New York City to help nurse him. Have you ever been to New York, Mr. Thoreau?”

“Yes, a few years ago,” he said. “I did not think much of it.”

“Most people find it a most impressive metropolis. But I am inclined to agree with you. Too much bustle, too little charm. I prefer Paris. Do you know it?”

He shook his head. “I have never traveled abroad.”

Since he did not appear to be more than thirty I ventured to say, in perhaps a slightly condescending tone, “Well, you have time enough ahead of you to do so.”

“But not inclination enough,” he said. “For me, it would be a wretched bargain to accept the proudest Paris in exchange for my native village. As much as I might gain from going abroad, I would lose far more from being away. The sight of a marsh hawk in Concord meadows, for example.”

Despite his serious expression, I discerned a twinkle in his eye and surmised he was amusing himself by pretending to be more provincial than he actually was. “Whether you are jesting with me or not, Mr. Thoreau, I am disposed to agree with you,” I replied.“I am sure I would have been content to stay in Plumford for the rest of my life if my father had not seen fit to take me away when I was eleven. I have traveled the Continent over the last ten years, on account of Papa being a portrait painter who must go to his subjects, but I have always longed to return to America. So I parted ways with him and removed to New York. I teach art there.”

“I too have been a teacher,” Thoreau said, but he did not elucidate.

Weary of asking him questions, I fell silent, much to his relief I am sure. He looked up to the heavens to follow the flight of an oriole, and I too became captivated by the gorgeous winged creature as it glided past us. Suddenly a gun bellowed, and the bird plunged from the sky, followed by a puff of bright orange and black feathers. I cried out in dismay, and Mr. Thoreau sadly shook his head.

Shortly, a hunter came up the path, clutching the dead bird in one hand. In the other he held a fowling piece. From his smooth stride, superior height, and tall beaver hat, I recognized him to be the Rev. Mr. Upson. He recognized me in return and hurried forth.

“I hardly expected to meet up with you here, Miss Bell,” he said, looking from me to the man at my side. His scowl made it clear that he disapproved of finding us alone in such a secluded spot.

I, in turn, looked disapprovingly at the dead bird Mr. Upson held by its feet. He opened the leather sack hanging from his shoulder, and I saw that it was stuffed with feathery carcasses and furry pelts. I gasped.

“The necessary means to a noble end,” he told me, adding the oriole to his grisly collection. “I need feathers and fur to make my fishing flies.”

“You call it noble to slay creatures out of the water to better kill those in it?” Thoreau asked him. They glowered at each other.

I quickly made introductions and gave the reverend a succinct summation of what had brought us to Devil’s Perch. We then went to the summit’s rim and saw that Adam had been joined by Constable Beers and members of the Coroner’s Jury.

“I must go testify,” Thoreau said and nimbly clambered down the steep path to join the men below, leaving me alone with Mr. Upson.

Staring down at the group of men who had collected around the body, he heaved a great sigh. I wondered if he was recalling the day townsmen had formed such a jury to view his beloved wife’s remains. I could not ask him, of course, since he has never spoken of her tragic demise to me during our conversations since my arrival in Plumford. Indeed, I would not even know of Mrs. Upson’s death at the hands of a wretched tramp last summer if Molly had not told me. I glanced up at Mr. Upson’s quite distinguished profile and thought I discerned a tear dampening the outer edge of his eye. My heart went out to him, and I touched the sleeve of his black broadcloth coat to comfort him. He covered my hand with his own and pressed it so hard against his arm that I could feel the heat and muscle of his flesh through the woolen cloth.

I tugged my hand free from under his and said, “Perhaps your services as a minister could be of use below.”

He looked at me in disbelief. “Are you suggesting I pray over the body of a Negro?”

“Is it not your duty as a clergyman to pray for all souls?”

“Prayer . . .