Cynthia Bailey Pratt (8 page)

In hope of enlivening Helena’s spirits, Jocelyn said, “I’d be even more grateful if you could come as well as the biscuits.” She leaned closer to her friend’s ear and whispered, “To condemn myself, I must confess I’d forgotten I invited them.”

Helena giggled and then said, “Let me ask my brother if he needs me, then I shall follow you in a few minutes.” Her lovely face sobered. “I need to talk to you privately, later. I ... I don’t know what’s going on. I need to tell you . . . Matt Hodges was here Thursday and ...” She looked up with a start when a shadow fell between them.

Mr. Fletcher, for once without a book in his hand, though one bulged in his pocket, said, “Pardon me. Miss Fain. Miss Burnwell, we’d best leave before Arnold gets into trouble.” He pointed to where Arnold was trying to stand on his hands for the edification of some girls. Jocelyn darted off across the green grass, thinking furiously about what Helena had said. Matt Hodges at the church on Thursday! Mrs. Hodges found it impossible to get her husband there even on Sundays, so it was very odd that he should . . .

Watching her friend fly away, Helena said, with a return to her natural style, “I am glad to have no younger brothers when I see Arnold Luckem. How do you manage him, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid. Only long experience would help me with him, and I’ve no brothers, younger or older.” He could not help flashing a swift look toward Mr. Fain, still talking to his parishioners. Mr. Fletcher stepped a trifle closer to the girl. The strong sun turned her eyes hazel. “Miss Fain,” he said, becoming more intense, “I wonder if you are—”

“Helena?” the vicar called, coming down the steps. Mr. Fletcher saw her nervous start and the blank expression she turned upon her brother. Taking her arm, Mr. Fain said, “You must come and speak to Mrs. Gleason about the Organ Fund. Good day, Mr. Fletcher,” he said pointedly, turning Helena about.

“Good day, Mr. Fletcher,” she echoed. Her gaze rested on him briefly as she was pulled away.

The tutor stood looking after them for a moment before turning toward home, kicking a rock away from the neat border of the path.

* * * *

At the priory Arnold dressed in a rough costume of old knee breeches and a wilted shin. He then made his escape, scorning the easy, familiar routes. Out of range of any authority he rumpled his hatefully slicked hair and dug his toes deeply into the moist soil, enjoying the squish. For no reason he then ran as fast as he could down the garden path and leapt the low stone wall, landing squarely and joyfully in more mud, knee and toe.

Beyond the garden wall the grass grew lushly next to the sown fields. Flowers made a clandestine appearance among the sprouting crops, illicit gillyflowers and cornflowers and very small poppies, nodding on long stalks, like spies in the enemy camp.

Arnold traveled in the general direction of a young river where he spent all last summer. It came down through the Luckem property in a boyish way, turning all the way round itself once or twice as it sought the big river that ran purposefully through Libermore. The water flowed higher this year than last and faster, rushing along, but not too busy to play.

Arnold crouched by the root-tangled bank, looking on while the river showed off. The surface ran marvelously smooth except where mysterious dimples appeared. It did not disturb his pleasure in the least to know that he had lied to his cousin, telling her he would be in his room studying and that he could get his own tea later. This was the best place to be.

The water swirled down over rocks and lapped flippantly against roots thrust out from the narrow rows of weedy trees and sprawling bushes on either side. Arnold remembered that one year he built a dam, both for stepping across and for the fun of seeing the water come down, smooth, rounded, and full of color, like the Roman goblet his father found. Was this the same place? Perhaps not. Everything had changed since last summer.

Arnold liked wild things. They never repeated themselves or acted like fools because that’s how they’d always acted. He didn’t like grown-ups in the least, and every time he went where they came together, he confirmed his opinion. Think as he might, though, there didn’t seem to be any way of getting rid of them.

“I could poison their hymnals.” He entertained himself with the thought of them all falling down dead in church. Probably go right up to heaven. He’d like to see that. Arnold caught at his throat and gagged, swaying from side to side.

“That’s a fairly disgusting idea,” said a laughing voice.

Arnold turned around in a defensive crouch. His first idea was that Mr. Fletcher had come to drag him back to the house, replaced quickly by the fear that perhaps Constable Regin had crept up on him once more. Fortunately, it was neither of those two fearful authorities. Arnold instinctively liked this man. His clothes looked like his own, comfortable, though another might call them shabby.

As Arnold looked up (it seemed a very long way) into the stranger’s lean face, he half-smiled. He felt a kinship as if the man remembered his own boyhood clearly. Seeing only an answering smile, Arnold straightened up, disdaining to brush at his breeches.

“Nice bit of river you’ve got here. Is it yours?”

“As much mine as anybody’s. Nobody else ever comes here.” Arnold dragged a dirty hand across his face. “Built a dam along here someplace last year.”

“Are you going to build another?”

Arnold shrugged. “Maybe.”

“If you did it right, you could keep fish in it. Save a lot of money, raising your own fish.” The stranger picked up a stone and tried to skim it across a smooth place. The stone sank. He made a face. “I used to be able to do that quite well. Got out of the habit, I suppose.”

Arnold shook his head. “Wrong kind of water. You need a lake. Bigger, calmer.”

“You’re right. I did use to do it at the Lakes.” The man put out his hand. “I’m Hammond. How do you do?”

“Very well, sir. I’m Arnold Luckem.” They shook hands.

“I know,” Hammond said. “I’ve heard of you.”

Arnold grinned. He knew what kind of stories were told about him. The stranger chuckled. “Yes, you’re right. Very little of it was to your credit. So little, I was surprised to see you in church.”

“My cousin makes me go. You must have walked fast to get here so soon.” His tone indicated he hadn’t expected such a feat from an old man.

“Yes, I’m a fast walker. I’m tired now.” Hammond sat down on a largish rock, without looking to see if it was clean. He put his black stick down beside him and stretched out his long legs with a sigh. The sunshine was pleasant on his upturned face. He almost wished he had no business.

“You seem to be a leader of men and boys, Arnold. Do you know anyone named Joss or maybe Josh?”

Arnold grew wary. So far, they shared a pleasant conversation about important things, but now the man came up with a strange question. It didn’t seem quite fair, as if he were asking for information he had no right to. Arnold looked sideways at the man on the rock. “Joss or Josh?” he repeated slowly, his brain working fast.

After a moment he smiled and spread his hands. “No, sir. I don’t know anyone by that name.” He wondered gleefully what Jocelyn had been doing the other day in Libermore and of what use this secret could be to him.

Reaching down and plucking a piece of lank grass, Hammond changed the subject. “All right. No Joss. Do you know Matt Hodges?”

“Yes, of course. Everybody knows him.”

“What do you know about him?” He noticed Arnold’s sidelong look and said, “Nothing embarrassing, old fellow. Just who his friends are, where he goes, where he is now?” Hammond knew they’d need a clergyman to tell them where Hodges was now.

“I’d like to talk to him.” Hammond laid the blade of grass on his thumbs, lifted them to his lips, and blew gently, making the grass vibrate with a sharp whistle.

“Show me!” Arnold demanded, coming closer.

Hammond obliged, showing him the right type and width of grass. “That’s right. Easy, isn’t it, when you know how?”

“Why’d you come to church?” Arnold asked suddenly.

“I like church.”

Arnold groaned, clutching his stomach. The man ignored his theatrics and went on. “It’s the best place to find out what is going to happen.”

“They don’t know anything,” the boy said scornfully. “Just mumble, mumble. Amen. Mr. Fain is dull as Cicero. He even makes the good stories come out rotten, like Daniel in the lion’s den. Now, Jocelyn can—” Hurriedly, Arnold said, “Well, you know, if you were there today. I didn’t see you, though.”

“I stood at the back. You might try standing there. Good acoustics and it’s quicker when you want to leave. You don’t have to push past everybody. Do you know anything about Hodges or Joss?”

“No, I said I didn’t.”

“You said you didn’t know about Joss. What about Hodges? Do you know who his friends are?”

Arnold sat back on his haunches and looked up at the man. “Matt Hodges doesn’t like children. Says we make too much noise in the morning. He likes gin.”

Hammond nodded. “I’ve heard.” He was certain now that the boy lied about Joss and told the truth about Hodges. The difference in his voice would have been obvious to the deaf. Hammond changed the subject again. “So, your vicar’s name is Fain. I didn’t know. The woman I talked to called him only ‘the dear, dear vicar.’ “

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Gleason. I guess she thinks that bony old daughter of hers is going to marry him. She gooshes.”

‘You mean gushes.”

“No, I don’t. She's just like jam on bread. When you bite into it, the jam gooshes out the other side.”

“I don’t intend to bite Mrs. Gleason’s daughter, so I wouldn’t know.”

Arnold thought that was hilarious, but even while laughing, he wondered about the real reason Mr. Hammond went to church that morning. He didn’t
look
religious. It was hard to tell. Arnold tended to doubt it, though. Most adult people who admitted going to church wouldn’t have been able to resist lecturing him about worldly pursuits on the Sabbath. Hammond, though, never even mentioned improving literature or quiet walks as an alternative to an interesting afternoon’s exploration. He wondered if Hammond would like to see the rocks he’d found last year that he had almost been sure were gold.

Gleefully he remembered Jocelyn. It must be her that Hammond asked about. At least, Arnold hoped so. That would be exciting. Arnold knew every boy for miles, and there were no Josses or Joshes. And she had been a boy not three days ago.

He snapped his fingers. “You know, I just remembered I’ve got a book I should be reading. It’s very interesting . . . about a boy who gets eaten by tigers ‘cause he doesn’t know his psalms. I never know mine. I’d like to see some tigers someday, wouldn’t you?” Arnold grinned. “Bye.” The boy tore off through the trees, his bare feet flashing behind him as he ran.

Hammond’s dark eyes narrowed as he tried to think boys’ thoughts. He took up another stone and skimmed it across the water but felt no satisfaction when it skipped three times.

The two nights he spent on his back in that foul inn used up much of his precious reserve of time. He couldn’t move efficiently before today. The pressure on him was building. Word that the letter had gone astray had undoubtedly come over from France by now. He must get it back before the body of the dead man was found. Once the corpse appeared, strangers were going to be much more closely scrutinized.

Mrs. Gleason had surprised him in church when she told him that only the knife had as yet appeared, somehow disengaged from the man he’d left it in. Perhaps the dead man’s friend, the one who yelled, “Go to it. Matt!” while he himself ran away, had obliged Hammond by removing it and the body.

Now, God alone knew how long he’d have to follow Arnold Luckem before the boy led him to Joss. From the moment he saw Arnold in the churchyard with the other children, he knew him to be at the head of whatever young mischief brewed in Libermore. Such a boy knew or heard everything sooner or later. Arnold Luckem held the key to one mystery.

Hammond’s discreet questioning of Mrs. Gleason had brought forth a spate of information, mostly censorious. Her opinion of the missing Hodges was that he was a loner, useless, and, expect for his downtrodden wife and daughter, friendless.

Hammond knew otherwise. One friend had stood by Hodges in the dark shed by the water’s edge, though not the kind to wade in during the thick of the fight. In that regard, he’d been more a friend to Hammond than to the unfortunate Hodges. Hammond pressed his hand against his ribs as he remembered the knife thrust just a trifle outside. He’d known that if the second man hadn’t run away, he would have been finished, unable to meet a new adversary with the necessary speed and violence.

Witty as she was upon Hodges, the full-bodied Mrs. Gleason became positively brilliant when Hammond expressed an interest in the “pretty girl in the Luckem pew.” With an arch look at her daughter, who, sadly for her, Arnold described correctly, Mrs. Gleason said, “That poor child. It’s always been given out, sir, that her mother was Mrs. Luckem’s sister, and indeed, so she may have been. But who? I repeat, who was her father? A sea captain? And in the navy? And honorably dead?” She sniffed.

“And yet never a word from his people, not for . . .” She coughed. “I shall be candid, sir,” she said as she prepared to lie. “Not in twenty-six years has a word been heard from her people. Burnwell, indeed. Ne’er-do-well is more like it,” the woman added with a final snort of severity.

“Burnwell?” Hammond looked again at the ugly bonnet. Yet, neither Mrs. Gleason nor any of the others Hammond listened to mentioned a boy and his mother living with the Luckems. According to gossip, only Miss Burnwell, her two young cousins, and a tutor were presently at the house. The parents were off on some queer business concerning “dead bones and suchlike.” Some tongues were wagging over the presence of the tutor, but by and large no one seemed to think the Burnwell girl could attract a fly in midsummer.

Sitting by the water’s edge, he reflected on the manner in which an entire town could get the wrong idea about a woman, for good or for evil. Hammond had not looked into the well of Miss Burnwell’s hat, but he noticed the delicacy of her bones and the graceful way she moved. Surely under her pelisse and that bonnet was a woman of attractions more subtle than those endowed by the mere possession of a lovely face.