come?”
“Can you tell us whether a man, or two men, stopped in yesterday, midday or thereabouts, to purchase ice?” St. Ives asked. “Probably strangers in these parts.”
“Indeed they did not, sir, neither one of them nor two. There were three of them, in point of fact. Why do you ask?”
“Constable Brooke is interested in them –
three
, do you say?”
“That’s right, a rum cove in a yellow coat, what they call a seaside coat these days. A bruiser, I said to myself. Face hammered in the ring. He stayed in the wagon, so I didn’t get a look at him except through the window. There were two who came in to purchase a small quantity of ice. One of them was a gent from the cut of his jib. Fringe beard, well dressed. Newmarket coat despite the weather. Pair of spectacles with a heavy black frame. Hair to his shoulders. Foreign cove, I said to myself, Mediterranean, mayhaps, and I found I was correct when he spoke. ‘I want
eese
,’ says he. I knew what he meant, of course, but I made him say it three times as a lark. Didn’t like him. Not a bit. Pretentious as an owl. The other was an average-sized man, looked to be a swell. The foreigner called him ‘doctor’ once, and the fellow didn’t like it a bit. Dark hair. Blue eyes with a scar directly beneath the left – a close call, no doubt. A great one with the women, I should think. Scotchman, says I to myself, but with most of the burr civilized out of him.”
“Can you guess the age of either of them?” Hasbro asked.
“Forty-odd for the foreign cove, thirty-odd for the other, although mayhaps older for him as well. Boyish face with those blue eyes. The foreign cove ordered the ice.”
“Anything odd about the purchase?” Hasbro asked.
“
Odd
, do you say? Well, sir. Odd enough, I suppose. He packed a box with ice, chiseled to fit just so. Size of a large hatbox, wood, but tinned inside. Smaller box inside that, tinned. Paid us to chip out the slabs, do you see? They must fit tight, he says to us, all the way around. Off they went, direction of Wrotham Heath when they got to the end of the lane, London bound, perhaps.”
“Were you curious about the purchase?” Hasbro asked. “Strange business wasn’t it – these tinned boxes?”
“Not a bit curious, truth to tell. I mind my business. Not like some gents I could name, who mind Mr. Cromie’s business as well as their own. Enlighten me, if you will. What the devil does the Constable care about men buying ice?”
“Perhaps nothing,” St. Ives said.
“And yet he sent you two to Cromie’s icehouse to carry out an inquisition? Thumbscrews in your pocket, I dare say? Stretch poor Mr. Cromie on the rack?”
“Not a bit of it,” St. Ives said. “It’s a simple business. A grave was robbed at Boxley Abbey, but the corpse would scarcely fit into a hatbox, even a large one. We’ve come on a fool’s errand, it seems. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cromie.”
Mr. Cromie looked at them blankly for a moment and then shrugged, apparently satisfied with the explanation. Hasbro did him the favor of refreshing his hot water bucket from a large kettle swathed in an over-sized tea cozy, and they left him soaking. Outside, the ice wagon was gone, the world empty of people.
They turned up the lane, back into Aylesford proper, bound for Hereafter Farm. St. Ives thought hard about what he would tell Mother Laswell –
how
he would tell it, which he had to do. There was nothing in any of it that would ease her fears.
* * *
“ P
ack a bag?
” Kraken asked Detective Shadwell. “You ain’t thinking of taking Clara to London town?”
Sergeant Bingham helped himself to a pair of walnuts, cracking them easily in his hand and eating the pieces, not saying a word, although the smirk on his face was evident to Alice. Kraken was livid with rage and surprise, and she was happy that he stood behind Bingham, out of sight, and hadn’t noticed the trespass with the walnuts. None of them needed more trouble
“Can you tell us whether a man, or two men, stopped in yesterday, midday or thereabouts, to purchase ice?” St. Ives asked. “Probably strangers in these parts.”
“Indeed they did not, sir, neither one of them nor two. There were three of them, in point of fact. Why do you ask?”
“Constable Brooke is interested in them –
three
, do you say?”
“That’s right, a rum cove in a yellow coat, what they call a seaside coat these days. A bruiser, I said to myself. Face hammered in the ring. He stayed in the wagon, so I didn’t get a look at him except through the window. There were two who came in to purchase a small quantity of ice. One of them was a gent from the cut of his jib. Fringe beard, well dressed. Newmarket coat despite the weather. Pair of spectacles with a heavy black frame. Hair to his shoulders. Foreign cove, I said to myself, Mediterranean, mayhaps, and I found I was correct when he spoke. ‘I want
eese
,’ says he. I knew what he meant, of course, but I made him say it three times as a lark. Didn’t like him. Not a bit. Pretentious as an owl. The other was an average-sized man, looked to be a swell. The foreigner called him ‘doctor’ once, and the fellow didn’t like it a bit. Dark hair. Blue eyes with a scar directly beneath the left – a close call, no doubt. A great one with the women, I should think. Scotchman, says I to myself, but with most of the burr civilized out of him.”
“Can you guess the age of either of them?” Hasbro asked.
“Forty-odd for the foreign cove, thirty-odd for the other, although mayhaps older for him as well. Boyish face with those blue eyes. The foreign cove ordered the ice.”
“Anything odd about the purchase?” Hasbro asked.
“
Odd
, do you say? Well, sir. Odd enough, I suppose. He packed a box with ice, chiseled to fit just so. Size of a large hatbox, wood, but tinned inside. Smaller box inside that, tinned. Paid us to chip out the slabs, do you see? They must fit tight, he says to us, all the way around. Off they went, direction of Wrotham Heath when they got to the end of the lane, London bound, perhaps.”
“Were you curious about the purchase?” Hasbro asked. “Strange business wasn’t it – these tinned boxes?”
“Not a bit curious, truth to tell. I mind my business. Not like some gents I could name, who mind Mr. Cromie’s business as well as their own. Enlighten me, if you will. What the devil does the Constable care about men buying ice?”
“Perhaps nothing,” St. Ives said.
“And yet he sent you two to Cromie’s icehouse to carry out an inquisition? Thumbscrews in your pocket, I dare say? Stretch poor Mr. Cromie on the rack?”
“Not a bit of it,” St. Ives said. “It’s a simple business. A grave was robbed at Boxley Abbey, but the corpse would scarcely fit into a hatbox, even a large one. We’ve come on a fool’s errand, it seems. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cromie.”
Mr. Cromie looked at them blankly for a moment and then shrugged, apparently satisfied with the explanation. Hasbro did him the favor of refreshing his hot water bucket from a large kettle swathed in an over-sized tea cozy, and they left him soaking. Outside, the ice wagon was gone, the world empty of people.
They turned up the lane, back into Aylesford proper, bound for Hereafter Farm. St. Ives thought hard about what he would tell Mother Laswell –
how
he would tell it, which he had to do. There was nothing in any of it that would ease her fears.
* * *
“ P
ack a bag?
” Kraken asked Detective Shadwell. “You ain’t thinking of taking Clara to London town?”
Sergeant Bingham helped himself to a pair of walnuts, cracking them easily in his hand and eating the pieces, not saying a word, although the smirk on his face was evident to Alice. Kraken was livid with rage and surprise, and she was happy that he stood behind Bingham, out of sight, and hadn’t noticed the trespass with the walnuts. None of them needed more trouble
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