MURDOCH AND NEWCOMBE, who had Flash’s offspring tucked into his coat, trudged down the path towards the bottom of the ravine.
“Smells like it’s going to snow,” remarked Newcombe.
“It does that,” said Murdoch. He was glad for his old sealskin coat. It had some worn patches and gave off a fishy odour in damp weather, but it was good protection against this kind of penetrating damp cold.
Newcombe glanced over at him. “It don’t sit quite right for me not to call you by your proper name. Is there anything else I can use?”
“I’d be honoured if you’d call me Will. It’s the name I was christened with.”
“Done. I’m Vincent. It means a conqueror. Bit fancy for a plain fellow like me, but my ma believed in giving her children names above their station. My older brother was named Lucius, bringer of light.” He spat to the side of the path. “Fat chance of that. Bringer of disaster and darkness more like. The younger one is Archibald. Well, I’d never say he was bold and brave; I’d say the opposite, but at least he hasn’t destroyed everything he touched.”
Newcombe’s voice was cheerful as he related this history, belying his words. As if Murdoch had spoken, he went on. “You may well ask why I’m casting such aspersions on my own kin, but truth is they don’t mean nothing to me anymore. I came across the mighty pond to get away from them all.”
“Indeed,” murmured Murdoch, with some sympathy.
“I might not be a conqueror in the exact sense of the word, but I’ve done all right for myself. Got the tavern going good. Got a respectable name in these parts, and that means a lot to me.”
Murdoch assumed Maria Newcombe had the same views, and that was why she was so discomfited when they had come into the kitchen. He’d glimpsed the doll and had wondered what Sally was playing at, but he couldn’t say he was shocked. When they were children, he and Susanna had acted out many bloodthirsty adventures with the few toys they had. On the other hand, there was something unwholesome about the child. Too much fear.
They had reached the bridge, and Newcombe stopped and peered over the railing into the stream below. “I believe nature can teach us our lessons if only we want to learn them. Look at this creek, for instance. Some men I’ve known are just like this little river. It don’t appear deep, but it is. You wouldn’t think it was dangerous, but it can be.”
Murdoch joined him to look down at the water, which was flowing fast, swirling around the rocks. Bits of twigs and leaves dipped and danced on the surface.
“Are you speaking of any particular man?”
“No, I can’t say I am.”
However, Murdoch had the feeling the innkeeper was indeed referring to one person, but it was hard to know who that was. Maybe he meant Murdoch himself. He also had the sense that his companion was testing him. Throwing out a vague statement like that to see his reaction. I’m testing myself, he thought wryly. It was as if he were standing beside himself observing coolly. Aha, that got to you, did it?
They set off again. The path was deeply rutted with cart tracks.
“Delaney kept some cows. The milk gets driven down to the dairy on Summerhill twice a day. He doesn’t do it himself anymore. His son, sometimes Kate, his daughter, does it.” He paused as if choosing his words. “She’ll be needing a husband. Young Master Craig is courting her. I hope he’s not playing fast and loose, ’cos she is stuck hard on him by all accounts.”
“That so?”
Murdoch knew that if he simply made encouraging noises, Newcombe was going to tell him all the gossip, which he could sift and sieve for nuggets of gold.
“He’s a good-looking young fellow, nice manners like his pa. But for some reason, Delaney took a scunner to him. Wouldn’t let him call for no price. Gave out some cock-and-bull story that Kate was too young, which she isn’t. In my opinion, Delaney was just acting like a cock of the walk and would have come round, but by all accounts, there was more than one big barney up at the house, girl screaming, mother in hysterics.”
“Was the Craig boy upset?”
“Hmm. Don’t know if I can say that. He didn’t show it to me anyways. But the lassie was. Was going into a decline, according to all accounts. That’s over now, of course. The flowers weren’t hardly wilting on the grave when James went back a-courting.”
“How has the family been coping?” asked Murdoch.
“As well as can be expected. They’ve always kept to themselves. Not Delaney. He was a jolly man most of the time, but his wife is a bit of a recluse. Only ever saw her at church, and then not all the time. His older children are both married and away. There’s just young Philip and his sister.”
“What are they like?”
Newcombe didn’t answer right away. “Kate is normal enough in her brain, but …”
Murdoch looked at him questioningly.
“I believe in love, don’t get me wrong,” continued Newcombe, “but the lass has gone to extremes. Comes from being kept too much at home probably. I heard she was sending young James presents every day. Oh, little things, a bunch of flowers, fresh eggs, a cravat; but too much of it.”
Murdoch wondered who was the source of Newcombe’s information, but he didn’t want to shut him down so he didn’t ask.
“But you said James Craig wasn’t scared off. He’s still her sweetheart.”
“That’s what I understand.” He shrugged. “I mean, would you like it if a gal behaved that way around you?”
Murdoch considered the question. Liza had opened up her heart to him, but she hadn’t showered him with gifts, just a special one on his birthday and at Christmastime.
“To be honest, I don’t think I would. It sounds a bit on the desperate side, and I would be nervous about that being true love.”
Newcombe smiled. “My thoughts exactly. I had to woo Maria for a long time before she agreed to have me. I liked that. Made me feel she didn’t come too cheap.”
The puppy whined and Newcombe turned him around into a more comfortable position.
“What about the young lad, Philip Delaney? What’s your opinion of him?”
“He’s a bit of a sad tale, you might say. He had a nasty accident a couple of years ago. He and his pa were bringing the milk cart down to the dairy when the horse spooked. The cart apparently hit a rut, and Phil was thrown out. Must have banged his head. He wasn’t conscious for almost a week, and they thought he’d die. Unfortunately, it left him what you might call strange.”
Newcombe hesitated. Murdoch prompted him. “In what way, strange?”
The other man shrugged. “It’s as if he hasn’t grown up, physically yes but not in his mind. And he has fits. Had one in the tavern not so long ago. Just fell on the ground twitching like a headless chicken. Good thing my wife was there. She knew what to do.” He made gestures to illustrate Maria pulling Philip’s tongue out of his mouth. “They can choke, you see.”
The path was curving upwards around the side of the hill. The wind had blown away the snow except where it was caught in the clefts of the tree branches.
The innkeeper resumed. “Fortunately for Mrs. Delaney there was some insurance money, so she doesn’t have to go begging. They rent out a cottage on the other side of the hill to my man, Lacey, so that’s an income as well.”
“Do the Laceys ever use this path?”
The innkeeper looked at him curiously, and Murdoch grimaced. “You never know what will be relevant till you start.”
“I can’t say I ever enquired, but this is by far the easiest way. The other’s closer, but you’ve got to climb all those darn steps.” Newcombe patted his wide girth. “If it were me, I’d take the long way round any day.”
“I discovered a cosy little hideaway over near the railway bridge on the way to the Lacey cottage. I wondered who’d built it?”
“It was likely Walter made it for Sally.”
To their left, about fifty yards back and almost hidden in a stand of evergreens, appeared a small house. It was plain and unpainted.
“He owned that one, too,” said Newcombe, pointing. “Mrs. Bowling rents it. She works for the Delaneys.”
“A widow?”
“That’s right.”
Newcombe had an attractive lack of guile to him, but once again Murdoch sensed something else. He wondered if the innkeeper himself wasn’t one of those deeper pools he’d been going on about.
They trudged on past a sloping field where three mud-caked cows chewed dispiritedly at a stook of hay. The Delaney house was visible on the crest of the hill and the path again divided, one fork becoming the driveway to the house, the other continuing on, he presumed, to the Lacey cottage. Lamps shone in both the upstairs and downstairs windows, and a thin column of smoke drifted from the chimney.
“We’ll go in the side door,” said Newcombe, and he led the way through a wooden gate down a dirt path that ran alongside the empty vegetable garden. A wreath of intertwined willow wands and bedraggled black crepe was fastened on the door, and Murdoch could see the paint, once dark green, was peeling from the windowsills and eaves. A broken pane of glass in the door panel had been patched with cardboard.
Newcombe knocked and opened the door, which led directly into the large kitchen. The smell almost made Murdoch gag, something thick and sour. An elderly woman was standing in front of the large, black range in the centre of the room, stirring an enormous pot. Murdoch assumed the repulsive odour was coming from that.
“Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Bowling,” said Newcombe.
She turned around. “My, didn’t expect to see you today, Vincent.”
Facing them, she didn’t appear at all as old as Murdoch had at first thought. Her hair was iron grey and pulled up tight in a knot on top of her head, and she was quite stooped. However, her face was still smooth enough; and when she smiled at the innkeeper, she revealed good, unspoiled teeth. She had on a stained Holland apron that looked as if it would stand on its own from the amount of grease it had absorbed.
Newcombe pinched his nostrils with his fingers. “I surmise from the pong, you are boiling up the pig food?”
“Bad, is it? I’m so used to it, I don’t notice anymore.” They could hear a dog yapping excitedly, and the puppy inside Newcombe’s coat gave a short, sharp reply and wriggled to get free.
“Hold on, you titch. In a minute.”
Murdoch glanced around. There was nothing homey or welcoming about the kitchen. The flagstones were uneven, and the only piece of furniture was a bare wooden table and a solitary chair. The range occupied most of the space.
“Missus is upstairs in the parlour. Mr. James and Miss Kate are playing duets. Love songs, no doubt.”
She grimaced but whether that was because of the nature of the music or because the bubbling liquid in the pot spat out on her wrist, Murdoch was never to know. The door opened and a woman in the sombre clothes of close mourning entered.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Newcombe.”
A small black-and-tan terrier, similar in appearance to Tripper, came dashing past her, yipping with excitement. He stopped abruptly in front of Newcombe, his head up, his little black muzzle quivering as he tried to locate the source of the new smell.
Newcombe tipped his hat to the woman. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Delaney. I’ve brought up Flash’s whelp like I promised.”
He placed the little dog on the floor. “Don’t you piddle, you rascal, or you’ll get me in trouble.”
All four of them watched the two dogs for a moment as the pup licked at his sire’s muzzle. Flash’s response was quite different from Havoc’s. He seemed to enjoy what the pup was doing. He sniffed in return, his tail waving.
“See, he knows it’s his own flesh and blood,” said Newcombe.
The woman frowned. “I don’t know who’s going to take care of another dog. Kate won’t have anything to do with them, and I have too much to do just managing our affairs.” Her tone was aggrieved.
“You don’t have to keep him, Mrs. Delaney,” said Newcombe. “I’d rather you didn’t if it’s too much. My agreement was with your husband.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “We’ll see. It might give Philip something to do with himself. Oh, darn that dog!”
Her remark was addressed to the little pup, who had squatted down and was rapidly making a puddle of water on the floor. Newcombe whipped him up, holding him upended.
“I’ll just be a minute.”
He opened the door and hurried outside. Mrs. Delaney shifted her gaze towards Murdoch. She was not an attractive woman. Her widow’s bonnet and short veil were too dark and severe for her face, with its heavy brows and full chin. Long-standing discontent had etched sharp furrows on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Mr. Newcombe kindly brought me with him on his errand. I do apologise if I am intruding at this sad time.”
In spite of the mourning garb, in truth Mrs. Delaney did not look in the grip of sorrow. She appeared more querulous than sad.
“We haven’t had many callers lately. They flock to you when they can feed like vultures off your ruin, but when it’s apparent you’re not going to collapse, they disappear.”
Murdoch tried a polite smile. “I understand from Mr. Newcombe you do have a steady visitor in young Mr. Craig.”
He was afraid he might have gone too far, but she looked mollified by what he said. Obviously she did not share her late husband’s views on the relationship between James and her daughter.
“He told you, did he? Yes, it’s true. The young people are quite attached to each other, I must say.” She turned to the servant. “Mrs. Bowling, I was hoping for some tea by now.”
“Sorry, madam, I had my other tasks to see to. I’ll get on to it right away.”
“Will you join us, Mr., er, I beg your pardon, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s Williams and I would appreciate some tea indeed. ’Tis fair parched I am.”
An Irish accent seemed to have suddenly taken over his tongue. He had no idea where it had come from. He was saved from further comment by Newcombe’s return, the puppy tucked under his arm.
“All done.”
Flash jumped up at the sight of his offspring, and the pup greeted him ecstatically as if days instead of minutes had elapsed.
“Mr. Newcombe, we’re about to take tea. You can leave the dogs here with Bowling, and we’ll join Kate and her beau in the parlour.”
“Tell you what. I’ll just watch over them for a bit longer just to make sure they’re getting along; then I’ll help bring up the tea things.”
Mrs. Delaney considered him for a moment, as if ready to object on principle.
Flash was lying down by now, his paws outstretched in front of him. The puppy was trying to climb on his back, presumably intent on chewing his right ear. The innkeeper eyed them fondly, Mrs. Delaney with irritation. She nodded at Murdoch.
“Please come this way, sir.”
He followed her into the adjoining parlour. Mrs. Bowling was right about the bad smell. After a while you didn’t notice it. Only when he was in fresher air did he realise how repulsive it had been.
Mrs. Delaney led the way across to the far side of the room, negotiating her way through the heavy, old-fashioned furniture. There was a fire in the hearth, but it needed building up. Only one lamp was lit, the wick turned low. She drew aside the green chenille portiere covering an archway, and they went through to a second room. The air here was a sharp contrast to both the kitchen and the sitting room. It was cold with a slight smell of mildew. There was a threadbare Aubusson carpet on the floor, but no furniture at all except for one green velvet armchair and a small side table.
“My husband liked to sit here and smoke his pipe,” said Mrs. Delaney, and Murdoch wondered if it had formerly held furniture or if Delaney liked the lonely splendour of an empty room.
She sailed ahead of him to the uncurtained door on the opposite side.
“You are probably thinking we are eccentric or too countrified for your city taste, Mr. Williams, but we prefer to have our sitting room on the second floor, where there is more sunlight.”
“Very sensible,” said Murdoch, who had thought no such thing and wouldn’t have been able to differentiate country taste from the city if his life depended on it.
The door opened onto a flight of stairs at the top of which was a short hall. He could hear the sound of singing and an off-key flute.
“In here.”
The couple had their backs to him, but they were directly in front of the fireplace mirror and he could see them clearly. A young man, fair haired and clean shaven, was seated at a music stand, a flute to his lips. Close beside him was a young woman, rather tall and thin, whom Murdoch presumed was Kate Delaney, she of the overwrought affections. She didn’t stop singing or turn around, but Craig halted his playing and went to stand up.
“Don’t stop please, James,” said Mrs. Delaney, flapping her hand in his direction. “That is quite lovely. So accomplished.”
He resumed his seat. Kate acknowledged their presence with a curt nod, then bent back to her music. Craig raised the flute to his lips, and his eyes met Murdoch’s briefly in the mirror. Murdoch knew immediately they had met before. His name wasn’t James Craig then; it was John Carey, and he was standing meekly before Colonel Denison, the police magistrate.