Alice watched through the side windows for the headlights of Franklin Warren’s car. When they appeared, a bit after ten, she slipped into boots and stepped out into the side yard. He was almost inside when she called, “Mr. Warren? I wonder if I might have a word.”
He turned and in the wan light from the porch bulb, he looked like someone who had been through a war. His shirt was rumpled and dirty, untucked over his trousers. There was blood on it. His face was drawn and tortured.
“My word, you look like you’ve had a night! Are you all right? Let me make you a drink,” she said. He started to protest and then she saw the idea of the drink appealed and he nodded, resigned, and let the screen door slam and followed her into the house. She poured them each a glass of the best Scotch she had and gave him a slice of Mildred’s bread and two thick pieces of cheddar. He ate gratefully and drank half the Scotch in a gulp.
“I apologize for the state of myself,” he said. “I was up at the Webers’ and a sheep was injured and had to be put down.” His eyes clouded. Alice watched him. Whatever had happened up there had traumatized him. She wondered what it could be. Then she remembered what she’d learned about his wife and she knew it must be that. Seeing blood, it must have shaken him.
“How awful.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I keep thinking about those boys and … her. How terrible that they’ll have to do these things now.”
“I would say Sylvie can handle it,” Alice said. “She’s quite capable. People don’t see it, because it’s not the kind of capability that matters to them.” She wanted him to understand this thing about Sylvie. She needed him to understand it, so he wouldn’t pity her. “Hugh…” She waved her hand. “He was … superfluous. She’ll be fine. Assuming she has some money.”
She half hoped he would answer this question for her about the money, about whether there was any, about whether there was enough. But he didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t know.
“Was there something you wanted to ask me?” Warren said after a few moments of silence.
Alice said, “I won’t beat around the bush, Mr. Warren. I believe there is a person, a stranger, who is in our town. I believe this person has stolen items from the store and I believe he may also be the person who set the fire up at the hunting camp on Agony Hill.” She recounted the theft at the store, the problems it had caused, and her conversation with Mary Harper.
It wasn’t what he was expecting. Alice could tell that right away. He looked up and considered her for a moment. “Could this woman identify the person she saw?”
“She’s quite elderly and her memory isn’t what it was, but I think she might be able to give you a … sense of things. She couldn’t be relied on for eyewitness testimony, though, nothing like that. I’m telling you so that you can go and find this man. She said he looked like he hadn’t bathed in a while and that his clothes were very dirty. That suggests … certain things to you, doesn’t it? That perhaps he’s been sleeping rough in the woods?”
He nodded. “Thank you,” he said. But he didn’t go any further with it. That was curious. It was as though he knew already about this man and about what he was doing in Bethany.
She studied him. “You’re welcome,” she said. “Can I pour you another drink?”
She saw him hesitate and then he nodded. She went over to get the bottle and poured him another three fingers. He drank gratefully and when he looked up there was something so vulnerable about him that she said, without thinking, “I have to confess something to you, Mr. Warren.”
“Yes?” His eyes darted up to hers, interested. He seemed fragile suddenly, as though he was in pain and was trying not to let it have its way.
She went on, “A friend of mine is connected to the law enforcement community in Boston. We were talking about one thing or another and he, well, he knows of your … situation. He told me about your wife and I want to tell you that I am so very, very sorry.”
Again, pain, raw and fresh, crossed his face. He gripped the highball and took a desperate drink. “Thank you,” he muttered.
She’d made a mistake but she hurried on. “I’ll be frank. He also told me that you were beyond suspicion and that you had been terribly mistreated by your colleagues. I am so sorry for that too and I hope you will not spend a moment worrying that your new neighbors might somehow hear about this tragedy and harbor any thoughts that the events did not, well, did not happen just as you stated. I will make sure of it.”
Now, gratitude mingled with the pain. He didn’t speak, but he met her eyes and nodded again, holding back emotion. They sat in silence for a few moments, the hall clock ticking, the house, her house, which she knew as well as her own body, settling and creaking around them as the air outside cooled. “Mrs. Bellows,” he said after a moment. “I had a friend on the force in Boston, an older man who was an intelligence officer during the war. He was posted in Cairo at one point and he told me a lot of stories about his time there, how things were in those years. It seems to me that your husband must have been more than just an embassy worker. He would have been OSS, I’d say.”
She almost laughed. How extraordinary of him to bring it up. She couldn’t confirm it, of course, but she smiled pleasantly and said, “Ah, that was the war. Such a confusing time.”
Warren didn’t press the matter.
Though she already knew from Arthur, she asked about his family and he told her about the furniture company, and about his brother, who was in furniture too and who, despite towing the family line in all the important ways, had failed spectacularly at marriage, having reached the age of thirty-three with two embarrassing divorces already under his belt. Warren implied, without coming right out with it, that he was a womanizer.
They talked institutions. Warren and the womanizing brother had both attended Tufts, as had the father. Alice, who had gone to Boston University, determined that they knew some people in common, Boston being really quite a very small place when it came down to it, and they moved on to how Warren was getting on with Pinky and the rest of the troopers at the barracks.
They chatted while he finished his drink and she fancied that he seemed lighter, more carefree by the time he said he must get to bed. She walked him to the door and remembered about the wool coat when she saw the bag on the bench in the hall. “Mr. Warren,” she said. “I find myself in possession of a very nice coat for which I have no use. I think it might fit you perfectly. May I give it to you? For the colder weather?” He tried it on and proclaimed it indeed perfect.
He was already on the other side of the screen when he said, “I noticed that when you told me about the stranger in Bethany, you didn’t say that this unknown individual was the person who set the fire at the Webers’. I have to ask you, Mrs. Bellows, do you know anything about what happened up at that farm the night of the fire?”
Well, well. He is indeed as sharp as he seems. Alice couldn’t help but smile a little. “Mr. Warren, if I knew what happened up at the Webers’, I would of course report that to the police. But you’re right that I don’t think this … traveler, shall we call him, is responsible for what happened up at the Webers’. It feels … different to me, not of a piece with these other, petty crimes.”
Warren nodded, smiled, and said, “Thank you for the drink. I needed it. And for the talk.” He hesitated and she had a quick glimpse of a younger, boyish Franklin Warren. “I needed that too.”