Cut to the Quick (27 page)

“She kissed it, and held it against her heart. Whoever give it to her must have been all in all to her. She had gewgaws much finer, but I never saw her take on so about any of them.”

“That reminds me: One of her earrings was missing when her body was found. Have you come across it anywhere?”

“Why, sir, if I had, don't you think I’d have turned it over to the law? I wouldn't keep what isn’t mine, sir!”

“I never thought you would,” he said hastily. “But considering what a strain you’ve been under, a thing like that could easily have slipped your mind for a while.”

“I didn't find no earbob, sir. What a one she was for losing things, to be sure!”

The girl had hung the scallop shell round her neck again, Mrs. Warren said, using a ribbon from her bonnet. She sewed the broken ribbon on her bonnet in its place. “Very skillful with her needle, she was, I never saw a hat trimmed quicker or prettier.”

She had nothing more to tell him. Before he left, she shyly offered him a drink of her homemade cowslip wine. He accepted, although he did not think he would like it, and was right. He thanked her with real gratitude for all her help, and rode away.

His mind teemed with speculations. A silver scallop shell, given to the girl by someone for whom she felt a daughter's devotion. Someone she had not seen in years, but expected soon to meet again. At Bellegarde? If so, had she been killed to prevent her making contact with that person? Or had she met her death at the hands of whomever it was she loved?

*

Julian rode to the village to visit Dipper, and to find out if Senderby had anything new to report. Alderton was quiet, seeing it was Sunday, but there were people, especially young couples, strolling up and down the main street. Julian's presence created the usual stir. He was so accustomed to being stared at from a safe distance that it startled him when someone walked right up to him and spoke. “Mr. Kestrel, sir!”

“Mr. Felton. Good afternoon.”

“It’s Dick, sir. How’s the investigation going? Have you found out who did for the girl yet? ‘Did for’ is criminal talk for ‘killed.’ I read it in a book about a Bow Street Runner. Are they coming, sir, the Runners? I’d give anything to see one in the flesh!”

“The investigation is going tolerably well, we don’t know yet who committed the murder, 'did for’ has a certain vigour but I*m rather partial to 'hushed* or 'croaked,* and as far as I know Sir Robert has no plans to call on the Bow Street Runners.**

Felton gazed at him, round-eyed and respectful. "You are a downy one, sir.**

"Thank you. You haven't remembered anything more about the murdered girl, by any chance?**

"No, sir.** Felton kicked a pebble moodily. "I hoped I would, so I could go back to squire*s house and see how the investigation was going—maybe even help out someways. Just wait till I*m older, and I*ve got a bit of money put away! 1*11 be off to London then, and join the Runners myself. That's a life for a man, that is—not looking after other folks* horses all day and half the night.** He glared at the Blue Lion across the way.

"Aren*t you too busy at your work to help in the investigation?**

"Why?—have you got something for me to do, sir? Because I've got a brother who's a labourer and out of work, and he could take my place at the Lion for a few days, if I was needed to do important police work."

"I don't know yet if you'll be needed. If I gave you a task to perform on the quiet, could I trust you not to blow the gab by chaffing to your friends?" Sometimes Dipper's vocabulary had its uses.

"I'd be as silent as the grave, sir! I wouldn't say one word, not if murderous cutthroats was to threaten to roast me alive, I wouldn't!"

"I don't imagine it will come to that. But I'm glad to know I can count on you if I need help—unofficially.**

Felton assured him that he could count on him a hundred times over. By this time, he had made up his mind about Mr. Kestrel. He was a Bow Street Runner himself, decked out in an extraordinarily convincing disguise as a gentleman.

*

Senderby had news. He had found someone who saw the girl on the day she died, after she left Mrs. Warren’s. "His name’s Fred

Morley, and he’s the son of one of Sir Robert’s tenants, who works a form south of Bellegarde. Fred was on his way to the horse fair early Friday morning. He took the main road to Whitford, and had just passed through Alderton when he saw her.”

“What was she doing?”

“She was standing in the road, sir, talking to Bliss. He’s an old pedlar and beggar—a little bit daft, but clever with his hands. He comes through here every so often. Most likely it was the horse fair brought him this time.”

“Yes. I saw him there/’ He remembered the wizened old man, with his shabby clothes and colourful patchwork sack.

“Oh, so you know who he is. Well, Fred says he saw Bliss talking to the girl and pointing down the road. He thought at first Bliss was pointing at him, but as he got closer it looked more like he was giving the girl directions.”

“If he was pointing toward Morley, he must have been pointing east—toward Bellegarde.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Did he hear anything they said?”

“No, sir. When he got close to them, the girl saw him and took fright. Leastways, she hurried away from the road, and Bliss stood looking from her to Fred, like he wasn't sure what to do next.” “What happened then?”

“That was all Fred could tell me. He did wonder who the girl was, out all alone dressed in such fine clothes, and talking to the likes of Bliss. But he was in a hurry to get to the horse fair, and he was afeard that if he stopped, Bliss would beg from him or try to sell him something he didn't want. So he rode on past the girl and Bliss, and that was all he saw of them.”

“I suppose the next step is to question Bliss.”

“Easier said nor done, sir. No one’s seen him since Friday morning, when he was hawking his wares at the hocse fair. He was probably on his way there when the girl asked him for directions. I don’t s’pose there’ll be much he can tell us about her, which is just as well, because it may take a bit of doing to find him. If he left these parts on Friday after the horse fair, there’s no knowing where he’s got to now.”

“Does he have a route he usually follows?”

“He goes wherever there’s fairs or weddings, or any kind of do where folks are likely to be openhanded with their money. I’m just on my way to report to Sir Robert, and with his leave I’ll start an enquiry after Bliss. I expect he’ll turn up fast enough if he hears there’s a reward for information about the girl. There’s not much he won’t do if there’s money in it, and no great risk to be run.” “Does he have any usual haunts in the neighbourhood where you could look for him?”

“We’d know if he was anywhere near Alderton, sir. He don't make any secret of his presence. Contrariways, he’s always begging off folks or pestering them to buy his wares. I’ll look in at the old mill, though, after I’ve seen Sir Robert. That's where Bliss mostly sleeps when he’s in the neighbourhood.”

“The old mill—that’s by the stream, northwest of Alderton?” Julian recalled seeing it yesterday when he emerged from the Chase.

“That’s right, sir. We haven’t used it since the new mill was built, and it’s fallen into a sorry state. The parish keeps meaning to pull it down, but somehow we haven’t got round to it, and in the meantime gipsies and such' like use it now and again.”

“Has anyone been staying there lately?”

“Not so far as I know. Unless Bliss slept there the night before the horse fair.”

It occurred to Julian that, while Senderby was making his report to Sir Robert, he could go to the old mill himself and have a look around. He supposed he ought to tell Senderby what he intended, but he did not. If he learned anything of interest, he could always let Sir Robert know about it afterward.

The truth was, he was repenting of his promise to share his discoveries with Sir Robert. He did not feel he could trust any of the Fontclairs, and his instincts were to play a lone hand whenever possible. If that meant practising a secrecy inconsistent with his honour, so be it.

*

Before he left Alderton, Julian looked in on Dipper, who was now sharing his cramped, unwholesome quarters with a sheep-

stealer. They appeared to be getting on famously. Dipper regarded the sheep-stealer with great respect and curiosity. He himself had never stolen anything larger than a pocketbook, much less alive.

Leaving his horse at the Blue Lion, Julian set out on foot for the old mill. It was going to rain. The air felt thick and sluggish, and a dead white haze was slowly but surely blotting out the sun. If he’d had any sense, he thought, he would have changed out of the clothes he had worn to church. A coat moulded to his figure like a glove, a high shirt collar, and a starched neckcloth were not the best attire for tramping about on a rainy day, exploring abandoned buildings.

He crossed the main road and made his way to the stream that ran parallel to it. Here the grass grew in lush profusion, springing up in clumps like shocks of hair. He found the footbridge he had crossed yesterday. On the other side of the stream was the old mill, its weatherboarding decrepit, its sack-hoists serving now as perches for fat pigeons.

Inside, the mill was cool and musty. The windows did not let in much light, but cracks in the weatherboarding and roof helped relieve the dimness. As his eyes adjusted, he made out an expanse of bare floor and, off to one side, a partly enclosed area where the wheels and machinery were. The floor was coated with grime. Some of the boards were loose, with damp earth oozing through the gaps. The walls were dirty, too, and strewn with spiders’ webs. A throaty, monotonous murmur above his head told him the upper story had been taken over by the pigeons.

He was careful where he walked, because he did not want to disturb the pattern of grime on the floor. It was full of footprints. Most were too blurred for him to make out their shape, but he thought there were at least two pairs of feet, one much larger than the other.

Several floorboards had been pulled up and laid aside. On the exposed earth was a circle of stones, enclosing a pile of ashes and blackened bits of wood. Julian took off his gloves and felt the ashes; they were cold. The fire had probably been built within the past few days, but there was no telling exactly when. Someone had slept by it, too, leaving a long smudge in the dirt on the floor.

He continued exploring. Along one wall, he found a great many footprints leading nowhere, overlaid on one another so that he could not make out their size or shape. It looked as if someone had been pacing up and down along the wall, probably for some time.

At one end, this trail of footprints gave way to one large smear. Here, perhaps, the pacer sat down—with his or her back against the wall, most likely, since there was a smudge there, too. It was a godsend that the place was so filthy: positions and movements showed as clearly as they would in newly fallen snow. But what could he deduce from all this? Only that someone, probably Bliss, had slept here during the past few days, and that at least one other person had been here as well.

Then he saw it—the gleam of metal through a gap between the floor and the wall. He pried a floorboard loose and thrust his hand underneath. His fingers closed round a small, cold object. It was a gold teardrop earring, set with an aquamarine.

So the murdered girl had been here. It was most likely she who had paced this trail and sat against this wall. He recalled that the seat of her dress and the back of her shawl had been stained with dirt. He took out his quizzing glass and closely examined the place where she must have sat. His search was rewarded: caught in a splinter of wood in the wall was one long red-gold hair.

He removed the hair carefully, wrapped both it and the earring in his handkerchief, and put the handkerchief away in his pocket. Before he left the mill, he considered going up to have a look at the first floor. But the stairs were half rotted away, and the cobwebs draped across them showed that no one had used them for a long time. He decided with relief that he could leave the pigeons undisturbed.

He came out of the mill, shading his eyes against the sunlight. Why had the girl come here? he wondered. Was this where she was going when she left Mrs. Warren's in the morning? He did not think so. When Bliss was seen giving her directions, he had been pointing east toward Alderton and Bellegarde, not north toward the stream and the mill.

The stretch of road where Fred Morley had seen her with Bliss was very near here. Morley had said she hurried away from the road

when she saw him coming; she might have found the mill and taken refuge there. The luxuriant grass by the stream could have made the green stains round the hem of her skirt. And the mill was very near the Chase, through which she could have walked to Bellegarde. But if she were so eager to get to Bellegarde, why did she go into the mill, pace the floor, sit huddled against the wall? Was she waiting for something—the right time, a message, a companion?

Perhaps she had not found the mill herself. Bliss might have shown her the way. Morley had not known whether Bliss remained with her after he passed by. Of course, Bliss had been at the horse fair later that morning, but he could have brought the girl to the mill first. If so, it might have been he who showed her how to reach Bellegarde through the Chase. Everyone said he would do anything for money, and the girl evidently had the means to pay him well.

That could explain why he had not been seen in Alderton since the horse fair. He might have known, or suspected, that the girl was up to no good, and thought it prudent to disappear before anyone found out he had helped her. He might be all the more anxious to hide his connexion with her if he knew she had been murdered. Or would he have come forward with information, in order to collect the reward?

It was all speculation. Only one thing was clear. Bliss must be found, and soon.

On his way back to Bellegarde, Julian debated whether to tell Sir Robert about his discoveries at the old mill. If he were caught cpncealing evidence, he would be excluded from the investigation —perhaps even suspected of complicity in the crime. Yet he was still in two minds as he went upstairs to his room to dress for dinner.