by Blythe Baker
I am going to such great lengths to ensure that Sidney doesn’t know I’m home…I thought, chewing the inside of my cheek. I may as well admit that I think he could be capable of –
But I couldn’t even string the thought together. Not without feeling sick.
I settled into a chair in the kitchen, lifted the phone receiver off the hook, and dialed Irene’s number.
It only rang twice before she answered.
“Hi, Irene,” I said.
“Oh, hello there, dear, is everything all right?” she asked. “You ran out of here in a right hurry…”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I wanted to call and apologize for that.”
“It’s all right,” Irene said. “But what happened to make you do that?”
“Mr. Hodgins being hauled down to the police station,” I said. “I thought it might have been because of Wilson Baxter’s murder.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, that hadn’t even crossed my mind,” she said. “And…what did Inspector Graves say?”
My mouth was dry, and as I licked my lips, my tongue was like sandpaper. “Well, it seems that Mr. Hodgins and Mr. Baxter had a real history,” I said. “Very old friends who had quite the falling out.”
“I knew they’d been friends once,” Irene said. “But never knew the full story.”
“Yes,” I said. “And apparently, Mr. Baxter just recently tried to swindle Mr. Hodgins, giving him motive for the murder in the first place.”
“Oh my heavens…” Irene said. “Mr. Hodgins? Killing someone? I just…I couldn’t imagine it.”
“Nor can I,” I said.
My heart caught in my throat. I desperately wanted to tell her about Sidney, but…something prevented me. Was it the uncertainty? Was it the fear of what might happen if Sam was right?
“I wanted to ask you how you were holding up,” I said, deciding now was not the time to address that. “I’ve never seen you so distressed.”
“Yes, I am sorry if I’ve worried you,” she said. “I’ve just had a terrible time with all this. Not only has taking care of my brother been utterly exhausting, it has been very trying on my spirit as well. He is a good man deep down, but I fear that the man he was died in the war…”
I sank back in my chair, letting out a long, heavy breath, staring up at the ceiling. “The war certainly does change people,” I said. “If it’s all right, may I ask what happened to him exactly? What caused all his wounds and his paranoia?”
“His platoon was attacked in the dead of night,” Irene said. “A fire storm fell upon their camp, and he watched as many of his friends were burned alive. He was hurt, too, having gotten stuck in his tent when it caught fire. Then when he escaped, the enemy was waiting on the outskirts, and he had to fight them in hand to hand combat. He was one of three men who made it away alive, after having killed off the enemy patrol.”
My heart sank as the images filled my mind. “I’m so sorry,” I said.
“As am I,” she said. “You can see the horror in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking at him. According to my sister-in-law, he relives it every single night, waking in terror, screaming as if he was being attacked in that very moment.”
“I remember that…” I said. “Roger would wake in fear as well, though it was less screaming, and more gasping. He often told me that it felt like he couldn’t breathe when he woke. It would sometimes take us hours to go back to sleep…”
“That’s what my sister-in-law says,” Irene said. “It’s just so hard, because Nigel is such a gentle spirit. And he’s always had the very best sense of humor.” She laughed. “I remember once when we were children, we were playing down by the river, and he slipped and fell in. I expected him to be furious, as it was after a rainstorm and the mud had been all churned up in the water. He, on the other hand, to comfort me as I cried out of fear for him, pretended to be a swamp creature, growling and flailing his arms about…and then he slipped and fell in again. I laughed so hard, and he kept doing it, seeing how it made me feel better…” she said.
“He sounds like a wonderful brother,” I said.
“He is,” Irene said. “Between you and me, he’s probably my favorite brother. He’s always done things like that. Whenever anyone was upset, he was always there to help cheer them up. And now that he is in the state he is, there isn’t anyone around to make everyone else laugh again…”
Her voice cracked slightly, and it made my heart hurt for her. It was discouraging to hear her speak with such hopelessness.
Why was that following me every step of the way today?
“Irene, I can’t believe that your brother was the one who killed Wilson,” I said, my heart lurching with hope as I said it. “I really can’t.”
“I certainly hope you’re right,” Irene said. “I’ve been debating going to tell Inspector Graves about our suspicions…”
“If Nigel becomes a suspect, I’m certain Sam will come to you with questions,” I said. “He’s quite thorough. I’m sure he wouldn’t miss a clue that could lead him to the truth.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Irene said. “I know that my sister-in-law is worried about it, too, though.”
“There are some other suspects more closely tied to Wilson Baxter than your brother,” I said. “And besides…I think I have my own suspicions.”
“Does that have anything to do with what you were trying to tell me when you were here at the house earlier?” she asked. “You seemed so worried about something.”
“Yes,” I said. “I was coming to talk to you about something that Sam had told me over lunch…the whole reason why he’d asked me to meet him out in the first place, away from the other prying ears in the police station.”
“You sound upset,” she said.
“That’s because it’s so troubling,” I said.
I inched toward the window in my kitchen, the cord of the phone stretching out, almost fully, as I peered out into the back garden.
I could just make out the corner of Sidney’s yard, the edge of his shed, and what looked like a pile of brush that he was clearing. I couldn’t see him, though.
“It’s about Sidney,” I said. “He…well, he might be the one who…”
I heard a sharp gasp on the other end of the line. “You don’t mean…Sam thinks that Sidney may have been the one to…Wilson Baxter?”
“Yes,” I said. “And to be honest, I’m starting to wonder if he’s right.”
I retold Irene everything that I’d gone over with Sam. I told her about the fight that Sidney had had with Wilson the night he’d been killed at the pub. She seemed just as surprised as I was that he spent time down there. I told her about how he’d been acting somewhat strange around me, almost too friendly, and how he hadn’t mentioned Wilson Baxter whatsoever.
“And I hate to even think it, given how he’s been a friend to us for so long…but I just…I can’t – ”
Irene sat silently on the other end of the phone, processing everything I’d told her. At least, I assumed she was. She had said barely anything since I’d started talking to her.
“Sam made a very good point to me once,” I said. “He told me that just because I didn’t want something to be the truth, didn’t mean that it wasn’t. I hate to think that Sidney could have ever done anything so horrendous, or to think that we’d befriended someone who was capable of that, but…”
“I understand,” Irene said. “But he is right…I don’t like the idea either. Not at all.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating the reality before us.
“We’ve been friends with him since he arrived,” I said. “I’ve confided in him. He’s helped with so much.”
“He’s been incredibly kind, and I feel as if he has gone to great lengths to create a very honorable reputation in this village,” Irene said.
“But on the other hand, there is so much about him that we don’t know,” I said. “I have no idea where he came from, other than his accent. An
d I don’t know anything about his family, his childhood, any friends he might have had before he came to live here in Brookminster…”
“That’s true…” Irene said. “I suppose I never really thought about it like that. He is just so charming, it never really crossed my mind.”
“But doesn’t that bother you?” I asked, sinking back down into the chair beside the phone. “It’s always bothered me. He’s always been so evasive about it…changing the subject and turning the conversation back around to the person he was talking to.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” Irene asked. “Are you going to be looking into it?”
Fear washed over me like frigid rain. “I suppose I have no choice, do I?” I asked. “Otherwise I know that I won’t be able to sleep.”
Irene sighed on the other end. “I don’t envy you,” she said. “Truly, I don’t. Just be careful, all right? If he was the one who – oh, I can’t even say it. If he committed the crime, then that means he is dangerous. Try not to be alone with him, and whatever you do, don’t hesitate to call for help if you need it, all right?”
“Right,” I said, swallowing hard, my throat feeling as if it was closing up. “Yes. I won’t. I’ll keep that all in mind. I will be careful. And I will find the answers.”
“And Helen?” Irene asked.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Take everything that he says from now on with a grain of salt,” she said. “We should assume that it could all be a lie.”
“…You’re right,” I said. “And I think he would be good at lying. Perhaps too good.”
“I agree,” Irene said. “So take care of yourself.”
I realized I never needed her support more than I did in that moment.
11
I agonized over what I was going to do for the next three days. I knew I was putting off making any sort of decision, and I knew full well that there were quite a few people who were expecting me to follow through with investigating more about Sidney.
I considered calling Sam and asking him to find a superficial reason to search Sidney’s house, but knew that he would tell me he would need some solid proof in order to do so. Getting the police involved would only be possible if I were to find something that could give them the justification they would need to break in and look.
Irene also called me twice over the next few days, asking after me, wondering if I’d found anything out yet. I had to tell her I hadn’t, and found I felt a little guilty about it.
“If you want to back out, it’s all right,” Irene said. “There is nothing saying that you have to be the one to pinpoint Sidney’s innocence or guilt. Maybe you should leave it to Sam – ”
“He can’t do anything, not yet,” I said. “I can do this. I’ve done plenty of investigating over the last few months, this shouldn’t worry me.”
“Yes, but Sidney is a friend,” Irene said. “That makes it that much harder.”
She was right, after all.
I found myself peering out the windows of my shop every twenty minutes or so, looking for signs of Sidney in his yard. He seemed to be away for most of the day, likely doing odd jobs for those who needed him around town. There was no way for me to know for sure if he was home or not.
The idea of sneaking into Sidney’s home sent tremors down my spine. Every time I thought about going inside without Sidney there, I recoiled in terror. That couldn’t be the only way, right?
It was late one Thursday afternoon in early August, when I watched Sidney climb into his rebuilt truck, and head out into the village.
I had just closed up my shop for the day, and had nothing but a night of brooding ahead of me.
Now’s my chance, I realized, and my mind went entirely blank. My breathing came in quick gasps, and the tips of my fingers began to go numb.
I didn’t want to go. I was afraid. Sidney frightened me.
Why, though?
I had no choice. I had to go. I couldn’t wait. Now was my best chance.
I swallowed my fear as best I could, pushed the thoughts of consequences from my mind, and began to prepare for my forced entry.
To throw Sidney off my trail, I turned on some lights in my shop, and maneuvered one of the mannequins in front of the window just so that from the outside, it could have easily been mistaken for me standing at the counter. I set a hat on top, and wrapped the neck in a shawl. It may have been too much, but it looked convincing when I looked outside from the garden.
I opened my order book in front of the mannequin as well, and turned on the gramophone so that music could just be heard from the back door.
Pleased with the appearance that I was, in fact, home, I slowly crossed over to the gate into Sidney’s yard.
I realized that for all the times Sidney jumped over the wall into my garden, I had never once stepped foot into his.
It felt alien, and even though I’d seen it every day since moving to Brookminster, I felt immediately like I was intruding. Just like Sidney’s past, he kept his own belongings secret, as well…which was why I had never been invited over to his house.
I remembered Sidney telling me that he always kept a spare key to his house in the back shed, as he was prone to losing his.
It was relatively easy to find. I found it on a simple nail hammered into the wooden wall just inside the door.
After a quick scan of the shed, I realized there was nothing important out there. It was full of tools, garden equipment, and spare car parts. I told myself I’d come back as a last resort to look if I found nothing at all in his house.
If Sidney comes home while I’m in his house, I need to have a good excuse for it, I thought. What could I say that wouldn’t make him furious? Is there anything I could say that would help him to be accepting of the idea, and believe my innocence?
I chewed on my lip as I slipped the key into the back door, and with relief, I felt the lock give easily.
The house smelled like Sidney’s cologne, which was earthy and reminded me of spearmint. He spent a great deal of time outdoors, and the interior of the lower half of his house indicated that.
His home looked very similar to my own, especially on the ground floor. The layout was the same, with the hardwood floors, the plaster walls, and the exposed beams in the ceiling.
His living space was down here, though. A worn sofa was pushed up against the wall, and a leather armchair was beside it, draped in an old quilt. Wooden tables were dotted around the room, but apart from that, it was rather bare. A bookshelf along the far wall was very nearly empty. As intelligent as Sidney was, though, I had always assumed he was a reader.
A beautiful wooden clock that hung on the wall caught my eye. It looked hand carved, with a little house atop the clock decorated with a green roof and intricately painted doors. A track spread out from the doors, and made me think that some tiny painted people would come out when the clock chimed the hour.
It was obvious, though, that there was nothing down here that could identify Sidney as Wilson Baxter’s killer.
With apprehension, I glanced at the door leading up to the next floor of his home. More dangerous territory, as it would be impossible for him to not notice me up there if he came home, and even more impossible for me to escape without him knowing.
If I was going to learn the truth, however…I was going to have to do it.
I walked to the door and flipped on the light leading up to the next story. When I set my foot down on the bottom stair, it creaked underneath my weight, making my nerves sing with fear.
I held my breath as I eased my foot up onto the next step. And then I took another step, and another.
It was the longest trek up a flight of stairs that I had ever experienced, taking a moment after each step to listen, ensuring that he wasn’t coming home at that exact moment. If he was, then I was caught, and had yet to think of an excuse.
What if I told him that I was just coming to drop off something for him? I thought as I continued my slow upward progress. Well, th
at would only work if I actually had something to drop off. I should have made biscuits or perhaps brought him over some tea cakes.
I grimaced as I realized that was a huge missed opportunity.
I finally made it up to the kitchen, my heart pounding in my chest. I flipped the light back off from the switch up at the top of the stairs, exactly where my own switch was located in my home.
For all the sparse decorating that Sidney had done on the lower floor, his upper floor was completely packed full of items. Immediately, I was struck with the sheer amount of boxes I saw. They were stacked everywhere, all along the walls, beside the ice box, even behind the door to the stairwell.
He had chosen to set up his home very differently than I had. He had no table in the kitchen, which shouldn’t have surprised me, given the fact that he likely never had company over to visit. There was no sofa or sitting area in front of the fireplace in the living space, and instead the whole place had been converted into a huge office. An enormous mahogany desk was sitting in the middle of the room, piled high with papers.
What struck me most, though, was the cork board hung on the wall opposite the fireplace that was completely covered in papers, pictures, and red string pinned between them in a spiderweb of connections. Hand written notes were pinned haphazardly to it, as well.
My skin prickled, and I was afraid to even take a step further into the room. It felt foreign, dark, and enveloped in shadow.
Throat having long since gone dry, I did my best to keep myself calm.
This…this is Sidney’s home, I thought. My footsteps sounded loud on the carpet, as my weight caused the old floorboards to creak.
The room itself was not as bright as I would have liked, and I didn’t dare flip on the lights. But even in the dimness of the room…what I saw on the board made my knees weak.
At first, I was utterly convinced that I was seeing what my mind thought I wanted to see. Faces in photographs that had obviously all been taken without the subject’s knowledge, some blurry, others taken from further away.