uniform fit him like a sausage casing and he wore a beard of sparse, straight bristles. The dark scowl on his face made him appear to be a hard man, but perhaps that wasn’t surprising, Alice thought, given his work.
“Bill!” Alice called, but he was already on his way, opening the door at the first knock and letting the men into the house, the shorter man carrying a leather valise.
“You must be Harriet Laswell, ma’am,” the taller of the two said to Alice. “Detective Shadwell of the Metropolitan Police and Sergeant Bingham, at your service.”
“
I
am Harriet Laswell, gentlemen,” Mother Laswell said, having come in from the parlor. “This is Alice St. Ives, our neighbor.”
“Ma’am,” Shadwell said, bowing in Alice’s direction and regarding her with particular attention.
Alice stood aside in order to allow Mother Laswell to pass. Then she moved back into the doorway. She was aware that Clara stood behind her, wanting to listen, perhaps, but not to be seen.
“We scarcely expected that the London police would take an interest in the case,” Mother Laswell said. “I
assume
you’ve come about the murder of Sarah Wright.”
“Yes, we have. London in fact takes a
very
deep interest in the woman’s murder, and in the wellbeing of her daughter, who lives here with you, if I’m not mistaken.”
“She does indeed, Detective. Have you consulted with Constable Brooke at all? We know very little of the circumstances of the crime.”
“Constable Brooke was very helpful in his small way, but I’m afraid that the implications in the case require the full attention of the Metropolitan Police. The local constabulary is at a sad loss to puzzle things out.”
“God help us,” Mother Laswell said. “Let me introduce Bill Kraken to you, Detective. Mr. Kraken and I are to be wed at Christmas. And I’ll point out that Alice’s husband is the illustrious Langdon St. Ives. Professor St. Ives is a highly regarded member of the Royal Society. You can speak freely in this company.”
“Indeed,” Detective Shadwell said, nodding at Bill Kraken and bowing to Alice again. “We won’t consume much of your time. If you could instruct the girl Clara to pack a bag while we talk, we’ll consume even less of it. We must return post haste to London with the girl in our custody.”
* * *
S t. Ives and Hasbro traveled beneath swiftly moving clouds, the rain having diminished to a spewy irritation rather than a proper downpour. Hasbro turned up Farthing Lane to the icehouse at the end, a wooden structure with ‘Cromie’s Wenham Ice’ painted on the boards above a depiction of a sweating ice block clamped in a pair of tongs. A wagon stood outside the open door, where two men loaded blocks of ice onto the bed, one heaving the blocks and the other, aboard the wagon, tossing straw onto the ice and packing it in. St. Ives and Hasbro found Mr. Cromie, a hearty-looking old man, in his office, his foot in a pail of hot water.
“It’s the gout,” Cromie said to them. “The change of the weather does it. Every time. Sets it off like a squib. There’s nothing for it but a hot soak and the doing of as little as possible, a sport at which I excel. Only complication is that I can’t quit and rest.” He burst into laughter, a loud “Ha ha!”, the violence of it jolting his leg. He recoiled in pain and his face drained of color. “I’m a danger to myself, gentlemen,” he wheezed. “What can I help you with? Building an Eskimo hut, perhaps?”
“Something much simpler, Mr. Cromie,” St. Ives said. “My name is Langdon St. Ives, and this is my particular friend Hasbro. My wife and I have recently occupied the house and grounds owned by the late Agatha Walton, my wife’s aunt.”
“Have you now? A game old woman, Miss Walton. I was sorry when she passed away. I can see that you haven’t come to Mr. Cromie’s icehouse accompanied by your friend with a singular name merely to purchase ice. Why
have
you
“Bill!” Alice called, but he was already on his way, opening the door at the first knock and letting the men into the house, the shorter man carrying a leather valise.
“You must be Harriet Laswell, ma’am,” the taller of the two said to Alice. “Detective Shadwell of the Metropolitan Police and Sergeant Bingham, at your service.”
“
I
am Harriet Laswell, gentlemen,” Mother Laswell said, having come in from the parlor. “This is Alice St. Ives, our neighbor.”
“Ma’am,” Shadwell said, bowing in Alice’s direction and regarding her with particular attention.
Alice stood aside in order to allow Mother Laswell to pass. Then she moved back into the doorway. She was aware that Clara stood behind her, wanting to listen, perhaps, but not to be seen.
“We scarcely expected that the London police would take an interest in the case,” Mother Laswell said. “I
assume
you’ve come about the murder of Sarah Wright.”
“Yes, we have. London in fact takes a
very
deep interest in the woman’s murder, and in the wellbeing of her daughter, who lives here with you, if I’m not mistaken.”
“She does indeed, Detective. Have you consulted with Constable Brooke at all? We know very little of the circumstances of the crime.”
“Constable Brooke was very helpful in his small way, but I’m afraid that the implications in the case require the full attention of the Metropolitan Police. The local constabulary is at a sad loss to puzzle things out.”
“God help us,” Mother Laswell said. “Let me introduce Bill Kraken to you, Detective. Mr. Kraken and I are to be wed at Christmas. And I’ll point out that Alice’s husband is the illustrious Langdon St. Ives. Professor St. Ives is a highly regarded member of the Royal Society. You can speak freely in this company.”
“Indeed,” Detective Shadwell said, nodding at Bill Kraken and bowing to Alice again. “We won’t consume much of your time. If you could instruct the girl Clara to pack a bag while we talk, we’ll consume even less of it. We must return post haste to London with the girl in our custody.”
* * *
S t. Ives and Hasbro traveled beneath swiftly moving clouds, the rain having diminished to a spewy irritation rather than a proper downpour. Hasbro turned up Farthing Lane to the icehouse at the end, a wooden structure with ‘Cromie’s Wenham Ice’ painted on the boards above a depiction of a sweating ice block clamped in a pair of tongs. A wagon stood outside the open door, where two men loaded blocks of ice onto the bed, one heaving the blocks and the other, aboard the wagon, tossing straw onto the ice and packing it in. St. Ives and Hasbro found Mr. Cromie, a hearty-looking old man, in his office, his foot in a pail of hot water.
“It’s the gout,” Cromie said to them. “The change of the weather does it. Every time. Sets it off like a squib. There’s nothing for it but a hot soak and the doing of as little as possible, a sport at which I excel. Only complication is that I can’t quit and rest.” He burst into laughter, a loud “Ha ha!”, the violence of it jolting his leg. He recoiled in pain and his face drained of color. “I’m a danger to myself, gentlemen,” he wheezed. “What can I help you with? Building an Eskimo hut, perhaps?”
“Something much simpler, Mr. Cromie,” St. Ives said. “My name is Langdon St. Ives, and this is my particular friend Hasbro. My wife and I have recently occupied the house and grounds owned by the late Agatha Walton, my wife’s aunt.”
“Have you now? A game old woman, Miss Walton. I was sorry when she passed away. I can see that you haven’t come to Mr. Cromie’s icehouse accompanied by your friend with a singular name merely to purchase ice. Why
have
you
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