Murder, Sweet Murder, page 7
Rees scraped up the last of the stew with his spoon and jumped up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
He followed the young woman through the front door and around to the right. A narrow lane led to a small enclosure in the back. It was dirty and smelly and full of refuse, all filmed with a thin coat of icy snow. Rees distinctly saw a rat scurry from one pile of rubbish to another.
A door, propped open to the air, allowed entry to the kitchen. He could hear the clatter of crockery and the low murmur of voices.
To the left side of the tavern was another alley, this one so narrow, the opening so tight, Rees could see he would have a difficult time squeezing through.
In the yard, directly in front of the alley, lay a large canvas sheet half-frozen into the snow. The discarded cloth was scattered with old rubbish – but it was the large brownish stain in the center that attracted Rees’s attention. He stared at it. Up to now, the murder had seemed abstract. All his focus had been on Marcus Farrell and the question of his guilt or innocence. But as Rees gazed at the blood, the reality of the murder came into sharp relief. A young man had died here, alone in a yard full of rubbish.
It suddenly became less important to prove Farrell’s innocence than to find the murderer of this young man, whoever he might be, and bring him to justice.
Rees stepped around the stained canvas and stared down the alley. He could see the street beyond. He turned to survey this small and grimy space. It was quite private. None of the tavern’s windows looked out upon the yard and if the back door was closed and the proprietors safely tucked in bed, there could be no witnesses to the murder.
If Mr Bustamonte had chosen this meeting space, he had chosen poorly. After the shooting, the killer had easily escaped through the alley, disappearing into the streets that surrounded this tavern.
‘He was shot here,’ the maid said impatiently, gesturing at the canvas. Rees looked at her. She was hugging herself against the cold.
‘Yes, I see the blood,’ Rees said, trying to imagine the position of the body. ‘Do you know how he fell? Where his head was?’
‘My father would know,’ she said. ‘Let me fetch him.’ She disappeared through the tavern door.
Rees heard a male voice exclaim, ‘What were you doing outside?’
As the low murmur of conversation continued, Rees looked around once more, trying to visualize the scene.
The reed-thin alley was almost directly behind him. Roark’s killer had probably been standing within an arm’s length of the victim. No one, no matter how unpracticed with a pistol, could miss at that range. When Roark dropped to the ground, his murderer had slipped through the alley and fled.
‘What do you want to know?’ the proprietor asked warily from behind Rees. He turned.
The tavern-keeper was almost as tall as Rees, maybe within six inches or so, but they could not have looked more different. While Rees was muscular, broad-shouldered and solid, the other man was round. His white shirt strained across his belly. His balding head was a ball and his eyes were large blue marbles. He looked, Rees thought, like a porcelain doll made flesh.
‘He wants to know—’ his daughter began. The inn-keeper shushed her.
‘Why are you asking?’ he asked Rees suspiciously.
‘Marcus Farrell hired me to prove his innocence,’ Rees said. It wasn’t entirely a falsehood. ‘How did the victim’s body fall? Where was his head?’
The other man eyed Rees for a few seconds and then moved forward. ‘He fell here,’ he said, gesturing to the dirty canvas. ‘With his feet pointing at the alley.’
Rees looked at the other man without really seeing him. In his mind’s eye, Rees pictured the young man facing his murderer, the shot, and then the escape of the killer through the alley. ‘Did you look at the body?’ Rees asked.
‘No. Not after the first glance.’ The tavern-keeper shuddered.
‘Did you see where the bullet hit him?’
‘It caught him here,’ the tavern-keeper said, pointing to the side of his neck. ‘Just above the shoulder.’ He paused and added in a low voice, ‘His life’s blood was pouring out like a flood.’
Rees swallowed. Injuries to that area of the body almost always resulted in death. ‘Did you recognize the victim?’
The tavern-keeper shook his head. ‘No. I admit I didn’t look, not once I saw the blood.’
Rees understood. The sight of the blood would have consumed the other man’s attention. He would not have wanted to examine the body further. Most people would feel the same. Rees darted a glance at the young girl. Her father had not told the truth when he claimed the victim was not a patron of this establishment. He could be; the inn-keeper had not looked at the body long enough to know.
‘Did you see the murderer?’ Rees asked the other man.
‘No.’ The proprietor hesitated several seconds. Rees eyed him sternly.
‘If you know anything else …’
‘The poor man’s murderer was looking for something. The victim’s coat was open and his shirt disordered.’
‘You frightened him away,’ Rees guessed.
‘I must have done.’ Heaving a sigh, the proprietor said mournfully, ‘I just wasn’t quick enough to catch sight of him.’
‘This isn’t your fault,’ Rees said. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘The villain who did this would have fled down this alley as soon as he heard your back door opening.’
‘And I could not have followed,’ the tavern-keeper said, placing his hands on his round belly.
‘No,’ Rees agreed.
‘Anything else?’ the other man asked. Rees shook his head. Wiping his hands on the front of his breeches, the tavern proprietor withdrew into his establishment. ‘Come inside,’ he said to his daughter.
‘Coming,’ she said over her shoulder. Rees handed her the final penny he’d promised. Instead of retreating into the tavern, she paused, looking at him almost as though she wished to speak. But she said nothing and with one final glance at Rees, she disappeared through the tavern door.
Rees remained in the cold yard, thinking. What had compelled Roark to come to a shuttered tavern in the middle of the night? He must have known he was putting himself in harm’s way. And what had his killer been searching for?
No answers presented themselves and after a few seconds, Rees turned and left.
THIRTEEN
He had not gone very far when he became aware of soft footsteps behind him. Nervously, he spun around. A heavyset woman with a basket over her arm brushed by him. There were several other people on the street as well, but when he studied them, not one was looking at him. They all seemed like working people. The sun would set in an hour and they were hurrying to their homes and warm fires. Rees turned and continued on. But now, alarmed, he kept glancing around him. Although he saw nothing suspicious, he remained convinced someone was following him.
The narrow streets offered few spaces to hide and appeared gloomy even during daylight. Now, with dusk fast approaching, and long shadows stretching across the alleys, they were growing dark. Rees turned a corner and saw his chance. As quickly as he could he darted into a sliver of space between two buildings and pressed his back against the wall. A young man in buff breeches and a bright yellow jacket hurried around the corner and ran past the opening. Rees peered after him. The stripling – he was barely out of his teens – had paused at the corner and was looking desperately from side to side. Rees tiptoed out of the fetid alley and crept up behind the fellow. Grasping him by the arm, Rees growled, ‘Why are you following me?’
The young man jumped with a scream. But he recovered quickly enough and turned with a defiant glare. ‘Why are you asking about Roark Bustamonte?’ he demanded. Pale blue eyes stared at Rees from a tanned face. He had dark curly hair. Rees realized this man had been the lone customer at the bar in the Painted Pig.
‘Why do you want to know?’ Rees demanded.
‘None of your business.’
‘Are you Roark’s brother?’
Without replying, the young man suddenly pulled backwards, twisting his body so that the fabric of his jacket jerked from Rees’s grasp. He ran into the crowd and almost instantly disappeared.
Cursing under his breath Rees walked up and down the street several times, peering down the alleys and around corners. He saw no sign of that bright yellow jacket. Finally, he gave up and trudged back to the main street. From there he made his way back to the Farrell house.
Dusk had fallen. Rees was quite tired, and his feet hurt. The narrow twisty streets of this town were hard to follow, and he’d gotten lost more than once. He gave his coat to Morris and walked through the foyer. Voices from the drawing room drew him to the door. When he looked inside, he found Lydia, Jerusha and Cordelia gathered around the table in front of a recently lit fire. One plate of sandwiches and another of cake rested on the table in front of him. A large teapot beckoned to him, although tea was usually a beverage he scorned. Rees realized he was both thirsty and famished. When Lydia gestured to him, he entered gladly and sat down. Lydia passed him a plate and a cup and saucer.
‘I guess the shopping trip was a success,’ he said, looking around at the smiling faces.
‘I purchased the loveliest pink sarsenet,’ Cordy said enthusiastically. ‘And a pale lavender handkerchief cotton with several yards of embroidered ribbon to match.’
Rees filled his plate with sandwiches. ‘Did you purchase anything?’ he asked Jerusha. He hoped Lydia had kept a close eye on the budget. Jerusha nodded enthusiastically.
‘A length of pale green cotton. And one of blue linen. And Cordy is giving me some of her older gowns to make over,’ Jerusha said, turning a wide smile upon the other girl.
‘Pish,’ Cordy said dismissively. ‘I will enjoy seeing them upon you. And you will need more clothes when you attend school here in Boston.’
‘I will love them the more because they came from you,’ Jerusha said warmly, reaching out to squeeze Cordelia’s hand. She added, glancing at her parents, ‘Don’t forget, we are visiting the school tomorrow.’
‘We haven’t forgotten,’ Lydia said with a smile.
Rees stared at them. He could not imagine a sharper contrast to the murder scene he’d just witnessed, with its sad bloody snow, and these smiling girls chatting about dresses.
He turned a stunned look on Lydia. She smiled at him and took up the teapot to pour the hot brew into his cup. ‘The dressmaker comes on Friday to begin fitting us.’
‘I wish she’d been already,’ Jerusha said vehemently.
‘Us?’ Rees asked his wife as he closed his cold hands around the hot cup to warm them.
‘I purchased several yards of dark blue wool,’ she replied.
‘I could not persuade my sister to accept any of the cottons,’ Cordelia said, mock-frowning at Lydia.
‘I am an old married lady,’ Lydia said comfortably. ‘That new style of diaphanous shorter gowns is not for me. And Jerusha,’ she added, turning to look at her daughter, ‘I know Cordy is pressing you to adopt the new fashion of lower-cut decolletages. You are too young, and it is not appropriate.’
‘You do not need to worry on that score,’ Jerusha assured her, a faint pink rising into her cheeks. ‘I would not be at all comfortable exposing so much of myself.’
‘Do you want to see what we bought?’ Cordy asked Rees, leaning forward as she spoke.
Rees nodded and opened his mouth but before he could reply, Morris came into the room. He looked directly at Lydia.
‘Forgive me for intruding.’
‘Not at all, Morris,’ Lydia said.
‘There is a young woman who wishes to know if you are receiving callers.’
‘A young woman?’ Lydia repeated in mystification. ‘What is her name?’
‘Mrs Sarah Fitzpatrick.’ For the first time Morris unbent slightly. ‘She said to tell you her maiden name was Giroux.’
‘Giroux? Sally Giroux? She’s here now?’
‘In the hall,’ Morris affirmed.
‘Of course I am at home,’ Lydia said. ‘You must remember her, Morris. She was my greatest friend. I shall greatly enjoy seeing her again. Please show her in immediately.’
‘Very good, madam. And this arrived a little while ago for you.’ Morris held out a small silver tray with a rather grubby paper upon it. It had been sealed shut with an untidy blob of wax.
‘Thank you,’ Lydia said, taking the note from the tray. She slid the paper up her sleeve.
As Morris withdrew, Rees asked, ‘How long has it been since you’ve seen your friend?’
‘Seven years,’ Lydia replied. ‘It feels like a lifetime.’
‘Lyddie,’ shrieked the young woman as she appeared in the doorway. Rushing forward, she threw her arms around her friend. Laughing, Lydia returned the embrace.
FOURTEEN
Sally Fitzpatrick was dressed in the height of fashion: a filmy gown of pale yellow more suited to May than to January. Fortunately, she had an embroidered shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She was quite plump, rather too curvy for the current uncorseted style. Brown curls peeped from underneath a yellow turban. A style usually adopted by older ladies, the turban had the effect of making Sally appear younger than she was, as though she were dressing up in someone else’s clothes.
‘Permit me to introduce you to my husband, William,’ Lydia said. Rees found himself the object of a pair of curious dark brown eyes.
‘I believe you know my sister Cordelia. And this is my daughter Jerusha.’
‘Your daughter?’ Sally looked confused. ‘But you would have been a mere child …’
‘I’m adopted,’ Jerusha said, her voice too loud and abrupt.
‘But no less loved, for all of that,’ Lydia said quickly. She knew Jerusha resented being treated as less important because she was adopted.
‘I am very happy to meet you both,’ Sally said, holding out her hand to Rees. He took it and gave it a slight shake before dropping it. Surely, he thought, she did not expect him to kiss it.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Jerusha said, barely polite. Sally looked at her and smiled.
‘Don’t be cross,’ she said, leaning forward and placing one plump hand on Jerusha’s arm. ‘Cry friends with me. Your mother was as close as a sister and I would like to think of you as family.’ Jerusha blinked but, under Sally’s warmth, she couldn’t help but return the other’s smile.
‘Let’s all sit down,’ Lydia said as she moved forward into the drawing room.
Lydia and Rees sat upon the couch, with Jerusha, while Cordelia and Sally chose two of the four chairs nearby. Against the green walls, Sally looked like a flower in her yellow gown.
‘Are you the oldest?’ Sally asked, leaning toward Jerusha. She opened her mouth to reply and then, flummoxed, she looked at Lydia.
‘I have a stepson who is the eldest,’ Lydia replied. ‘We brought Jerusha with us to look at the schools in Boston. She wishes to become a teacher.’
‘How admirable,’ Sally said, sounding genuinely impressed. ‘Your mother will tell you how poorly I did in school. I am sure she is quite proud of you. I hope you are enjoying your visit to Boston.’
‘It has been interesting,’ Jerusha said politely.
Lydia glanced at her daughter and then at Cordelia.
‘You girls can go on upstairs,’ Lydia told them sympathetically. As Jerusha and Cordy quickly escaped, Lydia added, ‘The two girls have become great friends.’
‘How many children do you have?’ Sally asked.
‘Six.’ Lydia smiled as Sally gasped. ‘The baby of the family is upstairs napping in the nursery. And another is on the way.’ Lydia put her hand on her belly. ‘But you must have children of your own.’
‘Three,’ Sally said. ‘Two girls, one six and one a little over four. My son just turned one. The sweetest little angel.’ She waxed sentimental for several seconds about her little angels. Rees wondered if all the ladies in Boston talked without drawing breath.
‘They sound delightful.’ Lydia finally interrupted her friend. ‘And they all sound so sweet-natured. Did you marry your Quentin?’
‘Yes.’ A blush suffused Sally’s cheeks. ‘My parents weren’t happy but finally agreed.’ She paused as a maid brought in another teacup and a second plate of small cakes. Rees, who found it difficult to eat under the gaze of Mrs Farrell – he suspected she was judging his table manners despite her smiles – was very hungry. In unison, he and Sally reached for the plate. Laughing, he offered it to her. While she spent a few seconds inspecting them before choosing two, Rees helped himself to the two remaining sandwiches. Lydia poured for herself and her friend before speaking once again.
‘I am happy they saw reason.’
‘He has been able to provide for me. And when the children began coming, they turned sweet.’ She bent forward and took Lydia’s hand. ‘I was so worried about you when you left. I feared you would never marry. Now, to see you so happy …’ Tears filled her eyes. Lydia squeezed Sally’s hand.
‘Everything turned out for the best.’
‘I should say,’ Sally agreed. ‘Micah married Chloe Adams, you know.’
Rees, who had been planning to make his excuses as soon as he finished the sandwiches, since he did not want to sit through an hour of women’s talk, settled back into the seat. It appeared he might learn something about Lydia’s past.
‘Yes, my sister wrote me,’ Lydia said. She glanced at her husband but did not suggest he leave.
‘Well, he has led her a merry dance. It is no secret he has taken any number of mistresses, he takes no trouble to hide them, so you can add indiscretion to his sins.’
‘How humiliating for her,’ Lydia said, but not as though she meant it. Sally smiled.
‘Yes. Poetic justice, to be sure. I haven’t seen Chloe for an age. She took the children and moved somewhere in the country outside of Boston. I daresay she couldn’t face any of us anymore.’
‘Why, Sally,’ Mrs Farrell said from the doorway, ‘I did not know you were here. How lovely to see you again.’
Sally and Lydia exchanged a look and Sally rose to her feet. ‘How are you faring, Mrs Farrell?’
