Cook’s baskets. “Will has done nothing wrong.”
The magistrate leaned forward in his chair, reaching to pat her hand, which gripped the table. “Don’t worry, my dear. The constable is just doing his job, gathering information. We will get this cleared up soon.”
Gulping, Lucy gave him Will’s address. They all watched the constable scratch something in a little chapbook. He paused, squaring his shoulders with the manner of a man asked to taste something he knew would not sit well on his tongue. “I understand you also have a son, sir. Is he in the house?”
The magistrate glanced at John before he answered the constable’s question. “I believe he had a late night with friends, so I do not think it is necessary to get his testimony about a disappearing maid, or a bit of missing silver.”
Burke smirked but instantly tried to suppress it under the magistrate’s stern gaze.
His manner bland, Duncan said, “Oh, of course. Well, I doubt we need to talk to him, then. I shall go question the neighbors and see if they know anything about this. If you remember anything else, sir, do let us know.”
As John ushered them from the house, Lucy saw the magistrate put his head down in his hands. For a moment, he looked older than she had ever known him.
* * *
When Lucy heard the watchman call the tenth hour of the morning, she was still sweeping snow from the front walk with a bit of birch. She had positioned herself out front, so she could track the progress of the constable and bellman as they talked to each neighbor in turn. Finally, they moved out of view, and Lucy turned to go back inside.
She noticed a small dead bird on the step, wings drawn into its soft downy chest. The little wren bothered her immensely, although she didn’t know why. Didn’t she see dead birds every day? Game hens, cocks, pheasants hanging upside down, throats garroted, heads chopped off, blood dripping from plucked bodies. Not quite like this bird, though. The stone walk looked almost tomblike, and something about the lay of the bird’s tiny corpse on the step made it look almost sacrificial.
Grimacing, Lucy carefully laid the bird to rest under a nearby bush, rather than throwing it in the raker’s bucket. No good sign there, she thought, but at least it was no raven. It was common enough knowledge that ravens brought no good to the world. Good thing Cook hadn’t seen it. She’d surely be brewing some potion to brush across the step to ward off evil. As the cold edged more into Lucy’s bones, she wondered if a wee prayer might not be in order.
At that moment, a dusty cart pulled up in front of the house. She was about to wave the driver around back when she heard a throaty cry from the cart. “Lucy!”
She stared as Adam, dirty and rumpled, toppled out of the cart, helped by a man that Lucy did not know. Adam growled something, and the man jumped back in the cart. Whinnying at the smart crack of the whip, the horses trotted away, kicking up dirt behind them as they passed.
Across the street, a curtain moved, unseen watchers taking in Adam stumbling up the path, slipping a bit in the snow, making his way unsteadily along the stones. What could he have been doing all night? He looked uncommonly disheveled.
Coming to her senses, Lucy sprang to meet him. Drawing his arm around her shoulders, she hastened Adam over the threshold. The smell of drink was heavy upon him, and she nearly gagged. Once inside, away from gossipy tongues, she shook him off, leaving him to lean heavily against the windowpane. Truly, he looked terrible.
“At the tavern, sir?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. While the rest of us are worrying sick over Bessie, she thought, he’s off tippling down with his mates. That was a magistrate’s son for you, she supposed—and yet something seemed off.
Adam shrugged, grimacing when he moved his arms. “In a manner of speaking, but not what you think. I was taking care of some unfinished business.”
The magistrate leaned forward in his chair, reaching to pat her hand, which gripped the table. “Don’t worry, my dear. The constable is just doing his job, gathering information. We will get this cleared up soon.”
Gulping, Lucy gave him Will’s address. They all watched the constable scratch something in a little chapbook. He paused, squaring his shoulders with the manner of a man asked to taste something he knew would not sit well on his tongue. “I understand you also have a son, sir. Is he in the house?”
The magistrate glanced at John before he answered the constable’s question. “I believe he had a late night with friends, so I do not think it is necessary to get his testimony about a disappearing maid, or a bit of missing silver.”
Burke smirked but instantly tried to suppress it under the magistrate’s stern gaze.
His manner bland, Duncan said, “Oh, of course. Well, I doubt we need to talk to him, then. I shall go question the neighbors and see if they know anything about this. If you remember anything else, sir, do let us know.”
As John ushered them from the house, Lucy saw the magistrate put his head down in his hands. For a moment, he looked older than she had ever known him.
* * *
When Lucy heard the watchman call the tenth hour of the morning, she was still sweeping snow from the front walk with a bit of birch. She had positioned herself out front, so she could track the progress of the constable and bellman as they talked to each neighbor in turn. Finally, they moved out of view, and Lucy turned to go back inside.
She noticed a small dead bird on the step, wings drawn into its soft downy chest. The little wren bothered her immensely, although she didn’t know why. Didn’t she see dead birds every day? Game hens, cocks, pheasants hanging upside down, throats garroted, heads chopped off, blood dripping from plucked bodies. Not quite like this bird, though. The stone walk looked almost tomblike, and something about the lay of the bird’s tiny corpse on the step made it look almost sacrificial.
Grimacing, Lucy carefully laid the bird to rest under a nearby bush, rather than throwing it in the raker’s bucket. No good sign there, she thought, but at least it was no raven. It was common enough knowledge that ravens brought no good to the world. Good thing Cook hadn’t seen it. She’d surely be brewing some potion to brush across the step to ward off evil. As the cold edged more into Lucy’s bones, she wondered if a wee prayer might not be in order.
At that moment, a dusty cart pulled up in front of the house. She was about to wave the driver around back when she heard a throaty cry from the cart. “Lucy!”
She stared as Adam, dirty and rumpled, toppled out of the cart, helped by a man that Lucy did not know. Adam growled something, and the man jumped back in the cart. Whinnying at the smart crack of the whip, the horses trotted away, kicking up dirt behind them as they passed.
Across the street, a curtain moved, unseen watchers taking in Adam stumbling up the path, slipping a bit in the snow, making his way unsteadily along the stones. What could he have been doing all night? He looked uncommonly disheveled.
Coming to her senses, Lucy sprang to meet him. Drawing his arm around her shoulders, she hastened Adam over the threshold. The smell of drink was heavy upon him, and she nearly gagged. Once inside, away from gossipy tongues, she shook him off, leaving him to lean heavily against the windowpane. Truly, he looked terrible.
“At the tavern, sir?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. While the rest of us are worrying sick over Bessie, she thought, he’s off tippling down with his mates. That was a magistrate’s son for you, she supposed—and yet something seemed off.
Adam shrugged, grimacing when he moved his arms. “In a manner of speaking, but not what you think. I was taking care of some unfinished business.”
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