Death at Gallows Green (32 page)

Surmising that the landlady's enthusiasm might have something to do with payment of the rent, Kate gave her name and directions to Bishop's Keep, and went out into the graveled alley and around the back. Tommy Brock's dwelling was a board shack tilted to one side under the weight of a large creeper vine, which covered the roof and the adjacent brick wall. The vine was full of blue tits, who fled with shrill peeps at Kate's approach. She tapped at the open door, then called, and then, with a cautious glance over her shoulder, pushed it wide and went in.

The two-room shack was dark and chilly and smelled of damp. Other than the bed, the table, and a few items of clothing hung from pegs in the wall of the second room, Kate saw nothing unusual, and certainly nothing to connect Brock with Tod's death- She had just come out the door and was closing it behind her when she found herself face to face with the ugliest man she had ever seen. He was short and hefty-looking, with a face like a bulldog, a bristly black beard, and a fresh cut over his left eye. He was carrying a bottle of ale in one hand and a stout oak staff in the other.

“ 'Oo be ye?” the man growled, and brandished the staff. “Wot be ye doin' in me 'ouse?”

Kate recoiled from the man's alehouse breath. “My name is Kathryn Ardleigh,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I was looking for Mr. Brock.”

“This be Brock,” the man said, indicating the front of his filthy navvy's coat with a jerk of his thumb. He bared yellow fangs in a ferocious grin. “Wot d‘ye want wi' th' bastard?”

“I understand from your sister,” Kate said faintly, “that you might be available for work. I am seeking to fill a position on my—”

But Kate did not get to finish her sentence. Unexpectedly, Tommy Brock threw back his ugly head and exploded into a shout of rough laughter. “Work!” He slapped his hand on his thigh. “Work, th' leddy sez! Work!”

Kate pulled herself together. “I see nothing amusing about an offer of employment.”

“Amusin'!” Brock cried. “Nothin' amusin' 'bout employment, the leddy sez!” He lifted the bottle of ale to his mouth and pulled a generous swig. “Tom Brock woan't be workin' agin.” He belched heavily. “Not til ‘ee's drunk up 'is money from ‘is las' job. An' that'll take sum time, I'll wager, sum time. Tom Brock, ‘ee's a rich man. Very, very rich, 'ee is.”

“I see,” Kate said with a show of respect. “And what kind of work have you been doing that has earned you so much money, Mr. Brock?”

A guarded look came into Brock's eyes. “Bit o' this, bit o' that,” he said. He downed another swig of ale and slung the empty bottle against the wall of the shack, where it shattered. “Be orf wi' ye, leddy. Ye'll get no work from Tom Brock this day. He's gom t' sleep, like th' gud 'eathen 'ee be.” And he lurched toward the shack and pushed open the door. A moment later, there was a thud, followed by a loud crash, as if he had flung himself across the bed and it had collapsed under him.

As Kate got on her bicycle and pedaled down the cobbled street, it occurred to her that P.C. Bradley might be interested in the news that Tommy Brock had recently earned enough to keep him in ale for some time. As to what kind of work the man had been doing, Kate was sure she knew. He was a confederate of Tod's, and Betsy had identified him as one of the grain thieves. He could be a murderer, as well. That gash over his eye—so raw it hadn't begun to scab yet. Had he got it when he struggled with Russell Tod? Had that heavy oaken staff in his hand left the round prints that Sir Charles had found beside Tod's body, and mistaken for the prints of a woman's boot? She pulled in a sharp breath. Had that staff, which Brock had brandished in her face, been the murder weapon? It was possible, Kate thought excitedly, and more than possible. It was very likely!

But when Kate arrived at the police station, out of breath and eager to share her information with the constable, she was informed by a hand-printed notice pinned to the door that he had gone to Gallows Green and would not return until later in the day. She frowned at the paper, nervously chewing on her lower lip. What errand had taken him to the hamlet? It couldn't have anything to do with Agnes, could it? She stood for a moment indecisively, then climbed back on her bicycle and rode off in the direction of Gallows Green.

“I
have told you,” Agnes said gently, “but I will tell you again. All I know of the man is his name. I had not even heard of his death until you told me.”

P.C. Bradley shook his head. “Surely, now, Mrs. Oliver, that cannot be. Word travels fast in a hamlet like Gallows Green, and Mr. Tod was found yesterday afternoon. You must have heard.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Or perhaps you already knew,” he blurted.

Edward strained forward, barely managing to hold his rage in check. The interrogation had gone from bad to worse, as Bradley managed to insinuate (without actually saying so, of course) that Artie had had dealings with Tod and that Agnes had known of them. And now he was suggesting that Agnes knew of Tod's death before anyone else! Edward, a man of usually calm demeanour, completely forgot that he was a police officer. He was about to stuff Bradley's insulting words back down the man's throat with his fist when Agnes spoke.

“And
you
must have heard, constable,” she said with simple dignity, “that I have lost my daughter as well as my husband. I have been in this house, waiting for news of the recovery of her body. I have no interest in other events, of whatever magnitude, not even the death of the Queen. And how could I have known of this man's death before I was told? That is nonsense.”

Bradley had the grace to look ashamed. “I did not mean to suggest, ma'am—”

“Perhaps you did not,” Agnes said, wearily passing her hand over her eyes. “We are all on edge these days. I wish, Constable, that I could be of more help in your investigation. But if you have come to me hoping for intelligence about this man who has died, you shall certainly be disappointed, for I know nothing.”

Bradley pulled himself together. “Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Begging your pardon, ma'am—” He blushed furiously, fumbled with the hat he held in his hand, and tried again. “Begging your pardon, ma'am,” he burst out, “may I see your boots?”

It was too much for Edward. With a roar, he lowered his head like a bull and charged full force at P.C. Bradley.

 

Kate made a circuit of the village green, looking for Constable Bradley's cart or horse. She was bicycling past the smithy when she caught a flash of something white slipping under the currant bushes along the path to Mrs. Wilkins's garden. Betsy's duck!

Without thinking, Kate braked quickly, jumped off her bicycle, and pursued the duck. Jemima had been missing since the afternoon of Betsy's disappearance. She should be caught and returned home where she could be penned up, away from the village dogs. So Kate gave pursuit through the currant bushes, alongside the raspberry patch, and down the walk between Mrs. Wilkins's lettuce and cabbages and freshly mounded potatoes.

But Jemima was clearly determined on conducting her own personal business and upon remaining free to do so. She waddled nimbly through the garden and around a small stuccoed cottage, past a row of cold frames, and around the corner of a small lean-to shed. Kate, however, was equally determined. She stayed close enough to see the duck disappear through a hole at ground level at the back of the lean-to. Quick as thought, Kate knelt down, thrust her arm through the hole, and felt around, hoping to catch hold of a wing or a webbed foot and pull the bird out But it was not upon a duck's wing that her grasping fingers fastened. It was a warm, bare ankle!

With a little cry, Kate pulled back. She sat for an instant, her heart beating fast, then bent over and put her face to the opening. What she saw in the dim twilight of the shed made her cry out with joy. For what she saw when she looked in was the grimy, tear-streaked face of a little girl, lying on her side, looking out.

P
.C. Bradley proved to be more injured in pride than in person by Edward's attack. He had gone back to Manningtree to write his report and, without a doubt, to accuse his fellow officer of violent assault. Edward still sat in Agnes's kitchen, nursing a jammed thumb and a cup of hot tea.

“I have made it the worse,” he said miserably.

“Only for yourself,” Agnes said. She went to the fire and stirred it. “What will they do to you?”

Edward managed a half-smile. “Force me to endure Pell's berating,” he said. It would be worse than that, of course. Edward could be charged not only with assaulting a policeman, but with obstructing justice. It meant the end of his police career.

She sat down at the table across from him. “Someone actually did murder the man, then?”

“Yes,” Edward said. “Someone wearing narrow, sharp-pointed heels.”

“It's no wonder that the constable wanted to see my boots,” Agnes said. “This dead man, this Mr. Tod—” She studied her laced fingers. “Is it thought that he killed Artie?”

“Yes,” Edward said, devouring her with his eyes. Her face was lined and pale, her eyes sunk deep in their sockets, as if she were starved for sleep. But her skin had the translucence of fine porcelain and her brown hair was like silk. He ached to touch it.

She did not look up. “And it is thought he may have had something to do with Betsy's . . . death?”

Wordlessly, Edward nodded.

The words were drawn out thinly, like wire. “Does the constable
really
believe that
I
could have killed him?”

Edward never knew what he might have answered. Indeed, he was spared from answering at all, for at that moment, the latch rattled loudly and the door burst open. Betsy, shirtless and shoeless and with bits of straw stuck in her hair, flung herself with a cry across the room and into her mother's arms.

Edward stood, dumbfounded, and knocked his chair over with a crash. Then he shouted “Betsy!” and clasped both mother and daughter to his breast in an incredulous embrace, while a beaming Kate Ardleigh, holding an improbable white duck under one arm, looked on.

The next few minutes were a chaos of incredulous tears and wondering laughter. But after a little, calm was restored, and Betsy was wrapped in her mother's shawl and seated at her mother's knee. Kep sat on one side of her, released at last from the tie rope behind the shed, which the churl of a smith's boy had fastened around his neck—and which had kept him from tracking Betsy to Tod's shed. A cup of hot milk in one hand and a large piece of bread and butter in the other, she began to tell her story, helped in the task with questions from her mother, Kate, and Edward.

“But he
did
feed you,” Agnes said worriedly. “You
did
have something to eat.”

“For a while,” Betsy said with her mouth full. “Until he went away night before last. After that I didn't have anything at all.” She cast a guilty glance in the direction of the duck, to whom Miss Ardleigh was serving a bowl of milk and bits of bread, and lowered her voice. “I was thinking of eating one of Jemima's eggs.”

Edward leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You didn't happen to see Mr. Tod go away, then?”

“Well, yes, actually I did.” Betsy swallowed what she had in her mouth. “I was hoping he would think to bring me a biscuit before he left, but he was too busy arguing.”

“Arguing?” Kate asked.

“With whom?” Edward demanded eagerly.

“I don't know,” Betsy said. She yawned and tugged at her braid. “With a man. They were rather angry.”

“Do you remember anything about the man?” Edward asked, trying not to show how intent he was upon her answer.

Betsy yawned again. “He had black whiskers and—”

“Black whiskers!” Kate exclaimed. She turned to Edward. “It is Tom Brock! If you hurry, you can find him still asleep in his shack behind the Pig ‘n' Whistle.”

Agnes turned to Edward, eyes large in a white face. “You believe, then, that Betsy saw the man who killed Mr. Tod?”

Betsy sat quite still. “Mr. Tod is dead?”

“Yes,” Kate said simply. Agnes knelt down beside Betsy and pulled her daughter into her arms. She looked at Edward over the child's head, and Edward could read the pleading in her eyes.
Enough of death
, she was saying.
She's had too much already.

But Edward could not allow himself to be moved. “We need to know what you saw, Betsy,” he said as gently as he could.

Betsy rested her forehead against her mother's shoulder. “He wasn't a nice man,” she said in a muffled voice, “but he brought me food, and I don't think he really intended to hurt me. Whatever he did to make the other man angry, he didn't deserve to get killed.” She sighed and straightened up. “No one does.”

Edward stood and looked down at Betsy. “Do you think you would know the other man if you saw him again?”

“Yes,” Betsy said drowsily. She rubbed her eyes with her hands. “He had a queer stiff walk.” Her yawn was huge and her head began to droop.

“A stiff walk?” Edward put out his hand and shook Betsy's shoulder, gently, to wake her up. “How did he walk, Betsy?”

Betsy sagged against her mother's breast, her eyes almost closed. “His leg,” she said in a blurry voice. What she said next stunned Edward into speechlessness. He stared at her, disbelieving.