Free Louisa and the Country Bachelor : A Louisa May Alcott Mystery (9781101547564) by Anna Maclean

except . . . and there it was, fluttering in the breeze, caught on a bramble. A piece of paper.
    I rose cautiously to my feet and moved away from the edge of the ravine, toward that single inkling of man’s intrusion into this wilderness.
    When it was in my hand I sighed. A shopping list, pencil on brown paper. Eggs. White silk thread. A half pound of potatoes.
    It could mean nothing, but it did seem to be the same paper with which Mr. Tupper wrapped his parcels.
    The forest grew thicker just before this spot, with clumps of trees so dense they were like green curtains. I walked for another ten minutes or so and was soon swallowed by the shade of the ancient trees. I could have been in a fairy tale. Chipmunks darted through the leaves, unafraid, and squirrels chattered from the boughs. A doe and her fawn froze before me for a lovely moment before bounding away. Mankind and its institutions seemed far away. In fact, I seemed closer to the elf land of my childhood imaginings.
    Then and there was born my next book, Christmas Elves , a children’s collection I could time for profitable Christmas sales. I would begin it even as I was finishing my short story “The Lady and the Woman.” It would be a far cry from the “blood and thunders” I published anonymously. How wondrous is the imagination, that it can beget faithless husbands, mad brides, and benign fairies, all from the same material of life!
    As I walked, I became totally absorbed in this next writing project, thinking of names and plots and settings, almost unaware of the beautiful forest around me, when I heard a man’s voice singing at the top of his lungs, and his song was not a church hymn. In fact, the lyrics would have made a sailor blush.
    Curious, I walked toward that voice, mindless that I was alone and approaching a stranger who, judging from the diction of his chosen lyrics, drank stronger stuff than coffee at breakfast.
    There was a smoldering campfire, a leaning tent, a rope clothesline with leaf-littered blankets and crumpled shirts airing on it, tin pots glinting in the sun. The pristine forest had acquired a tenement. I crouched behind a tree, spying.
    The camping baritone was tall and thin, with slightly rounded shoulders and a scarecrow look to him. He was about twenty-five years of age, I estimated, with black hair and green eyes. He could have been of pleasant appearance, had he been groomed and sober. Instead his suspenders dangled about his knees and his white shirttail flooded over his waist. His trousers were grimy with dirt; his dark hair stood on end, and seeds and bristles punctuated his side whiskers. His face was red from drink.
    Common sense told me to turn and leave. Curiosity bade me stay. Was he a tramp, out living rough like this? His soiled clothes appeared to be newly and expensively made, with velvet trim and brass buttons.
    I watched from behind the tree, fascinated. After a minute he ceased his bawdy song and crouched before his fire. He commenced to run his fingers through his already severely disarranged hair, and I thought I heard sobs.
    â€œPoor old sod,” he muttered. “Poor old thing. I never thought that’s where . . .”
    I couldn’t quite catch the last part of that mumbled sentence. I leaned forward, and a twig broke under my foot.
    He was not as inebriated as I had first surmised.
    â€œWho’s there?” he shouted, rising to his feet. “Stand and show yourself!” He grabbed his gnarled black walking stick and brandished it in my direction.
    I stepped out from behind my tree.
    â€œI do beg your pardon,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was the soothing and nonthreatening manner appropriate for addressing a madman. “I was out for a walk and . . .”
    His crazed glare stopped the words in my mouth. He stared as though I were a ghost or woodland elf.
    I remembered I was dressed in boy’s clothing, and that in the humid warmth of the morning I had