by Blythe Baker
I swallowed, or at least attempted to, my mouth having long since gone dry. “I…yes,” I said. “Yes, please.”
She passed it to me.
Just as I was about to unfold it, the phone on the wall behind me rang.
I sprang from my seat, wheeling around to look at it.
“It’s all right dear, you don’t have to answer,” Mrs. Henrietta said.
“I need to,” I said, a million hopes running through my mind. Perhaps the paper was wrong. Perhaps he was still alive, and was calling to ensure I knew he was all right. Perhaps it was Roger, somehow calling to comfort me in my loss.
I ran to the telephone, ignoring the warnings from the women behind me, my legs wobbling as I struggled to put weight on them.
“Hello?” I asked, breathless as I picked up the receiver.
“Helen?” It was Irene. “Oh, Helen…I…I don’t even know what to say…”
My heart plummeted to the floor beneath me. “Irene…” I said. “Sam – ”
Irene burst into tears on the other end of the phone. “I am so sorry, dear,” she said. “After everything we talked about last night…after seeing him, and interrupting him…if maybe he had stayed with you, talked with you some more, maybe things wouldn’t have worked out the way they did – ”
My eyes stung, and my bottom lip trembled. “Irene, we – we can’t think like that,” I said, trying to keep my emotions in check. “There isn’t anything we could have – ”
But was there? Could I have done something to prevent this?
What if she was right? What if I had agreed to go out with him? Would we have gone to dinner last night? Perhaps lingered there at the restaurant, enjoying our conversation? Would it have saved his life?
Tears splashed down onto my cheeks, and my legs gave way beneath me.
Arms wrapped around me a moment later as Irene and I cried on the phone together, mumbling indistinguishable reassurances to one another, each trying to comfort the other. Somehow, I was helped to my feet and replaced into another chair.
“I’m coming down there,” Irene said. “You – you shouldn’t be alone.”
I just nodded, unable to contain the sadness any longer.
I wasn’t sure who it was that took the receiver out of my hand and finished the conversation with Irene for me. I continued to cry into my hands, no longer able to find the strength to resist the tidal wave of sorrow that was crashing against my soul.
This wasn’t just someone I’d never met. This wasn’t a long lost relative, or a victim of war, or even someone who vaguely reminded me of myself.
It had hurt me when Mr. James died, especially when I felt like there was more I could have done to help him, feeling almost responsible for his death in the first place. But this….this was something entirely different.
This was almost like finding out Roger was gone.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, buried beneath the layers of sadness and disbelief, I began to formulate a plan. Anger seeped into my heart, a thirst for revenge that I had never known.
I was going to find out who had killed Sam, just like I did what I could to find out who had supposedly killed Roger. This was not going to go unanswered.
I would have no help. I knew that I would not receive the support from the police I had become somewhat dependent upon.
Nevertheless, I was determined to find out who killed him…and I was going to do all I could to make sure they got the punishment they deserved.
3
The thirst for revenge, it turned out, was an ugly emotion. Like poison, it seeped into my every thought, coating every aspect of my life until it was as if I had never thought of anything else, and could think of nothing else.
Irene was the one who pointed it out later that day.
She and I sat up in my flat, the shop having long since been closed, on our third pot of tea for the afternoon.
“This is unhealthy, you know…” she said. “If you aren’t careful, you’re sure to become obsessed with finding out who did this.”
“Would you rather whoever it was get away with it?” I asked.
“No,” Irene said firmly. “But this is not your responsibility. Even if you were close with him, it doesn’t mean that you need to be the one to avenge him.”
The shock had worn off slightly, and I’d taken the time to read the article about Sam’s death. Irene had pleaded with me not to, insisting that she give me the summary, knowing it would be better coming from a friend. I had refused, naturally, knowing she might leave vital information out in order to spare my feelings, as kind as she thought that might be.
“What I don’t understand is how no one else witnessed it,” I said. “Especially given the proximity to so many homes and businesses. Not only is the butcher’s shop right there, but families live in those homes surrounding it.”
“It happened so late, though. Everyone could have been sleeping. Or it could have happened so fast that no one would have been able to hear it in the first place,” Irene said, her nose wrinkling even as she said the words. “Goodness, I hate even thinking about it like that…”
“I should go and look in the alleyway,” I said. “See if the killer left behind any clue as to his identity.”
“You cannot be serious,” Irene said. “This really should be left to the police, you know that – ”
“And what if they do nothing?” I asked. “What if this whole thing goes completely unresolved?”
“Helen, listen to yourself,” Irene said, setting her teacup down and glaring at me. “Do you really think that the police would let something like this go? When there is so much at stake? One of their own men was killed. If anything, that fact alone will push them to solve this crime so they can maintain good standing in the community.”
I frowned, ceasing my pacing back and forth across the room for just a moment. She had a point.
“As it is, everyone is frightened. The Inspector, a man everyone respected and trusted, is gone. To everyone else, it proves that no one in Brookminster is safe. Not even a man whose entire job is to represent safety.”
Right again. “But what I don’t understand is…who reported the murder?” I asked. “Who was the one who found him dead?”
“The article doesn’t say,” Irene said, folding her arms. “It must have been someone that lived nearby.”
“Maybe they saw something else, too…” I said. “I’m sorry, Irene, I know you don’t want me to go, but Sam would have trusted me with something like this if he was still – ” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence. “He would have trusted me to do this for him.”
Irene shook her head. “You will never learn, will you? It doesn’t matter what I say, or what I do…you are going to do what you want to anyway, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just…I can’t leave this be.”
Irene studied my face for a long, hard moment. “You cared about him. So did we all. I just hope you really know what you are doing, and aren’t letting your emotions govern your actions.”
Normally, I would have agreed with her. But in that moment, I thought it was a very good thing that my emotions were the ones to drive me to do what I was going to.
I made my way before it became too dark down to the alleyway where the paper had said Sam had been killed.
Killed…it’s still hard to even think that, I thought. He was the last person I ever would have expected to meet such a terrible fate.
I’d been back here before, when the body of the Polish beggar had been found in Mr. Englewood’s shed, in the alleyway between his home and the butcher’s shop. It felt strange, making my way back here once again to investigate another death…
I walked past the shed, finding myself in the long stretch of alley, the shadows of several homes pressing in on one another. Most of them had barely any room for more than a few meters of grass in their back gardens before they joined with the path separating them.
My knees shook as
I peered around. Nothing seemed entirely out of order. There weren’t any distinguishing scuffs in the dirt path beneath my feet, though I wondered if any of the smudges or indents could have been footprints that had been trampled by the police when they had come to investigate.
Rubbish bins stood against the back of almost all of the homes. Shovels leaned up against the walls, and coils of rope and hoses were scattered around. Bags of fertilizer were stacked behind Mr. Englewood’s home, along with a few freshly painted terracotta planters. I wondered what they intended to plant before the first frosts came.
All of the homes surrounding the alleyway also had windows looking into the back gardens. Drapes were pulled on every one of them, likely due to the time of day. Any number of eyes could have witnessed what happened. Why hadn’t they reported it to the police? Or was that how Sam’s body had been discovered? Someone had thrown open their drapes in the morning only to find a prostrate man lying in the dirt?
My stomach twisted as I examined the pathway a little more closely. With every passing beat of my heart, I was certain that I would see blood mixed in with the dirt and stones on the ground. I never found any, though. The police must have done what they could to cover it up…something I was thoroughly grateful for.
I swallowed hard, looking around at all the houses once again.
I supposed the best place to start would just be to speak with the residents of the homes around, see what they might have witnessed.
Then maybe I could –
I stopped in my tracks, my mind buzzing as I realized that the last half of that thought was no longer possible. Without thinking, I had been making plans to go see Sam, to tell him what I’d learned, to see if he could do any further investigating…
And then it hit me all over again that I was investigating his murder, his death…and my already delicately patched together heart shattered once again.
I shook my head, and made my way back through the alleyway to the main street, where I walked up to Mr. Englewood’s door and knocked.
He appeared a few moments later, dressed in a nightcap and silk gown that was tied around his waist. “Mrs. Lightholder,” he said, squinting as he adjusted his glasses on his crooked nose. “My apologies for not being in any condition to receive you, but I wasn’t expecting company.”
“No, that’s all right, Mr. Englewood,” I said. “I was just stopping by to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Well…all right,” Mr. Englewood said, his wispy eyebrows furrowing together. “You look rather distressed. Is everything all right?”
“I’m not quite sure,” I said.
I glanced over my shoulder, up the street, hoping against all hope that we would not be overheard.
“Mr. Englewood, I know this may be unpleasant for you to discuss, but…did you witness anything strange last night? Out in the alleyway behind your house?” I asked.
The wrinkles on Mr. Englewood’s forehead deepened, and he looked down at his slippered feet. “You mean to discuss what happened to the Inspector?” he asked, nodding, smacking his lips. “Yes, I suppose you would, given that you were friends…No, I didn’t see or hear anything, and to me, that’s the strangest part of it all. I was awake for most of the night reading last night, and I heard no more than the wind against the shutters and the occasional hoot of an owl. It’s deeply troubling to me that something so horrendous happened right outside my back garden, and I was none the wiser until this very morning…” He looked up at me, the color having been leeched from his face. “It’s quite troubling when this isn’t the first murder to occur so very near to my home.”
I knew he was referring to the Polish beggar, who was found dead in the shed between his home and the butcher’s.
“But you were not home the first time, Mr. Englewood,” I reassured him. “No one blames you for what happened with the beggar.”
“Nevertheless…” Mr. Englewood said. “I am still shaken about what happened to Inspector Graves. To have been killed in such a terrible way…”
My throat grew tight, and the bile rose from my stomach. But I still had to ask. “Mr. Englewood, do you know who it was that found him out there?” I asked.
Mr. Englewood shook his head. “Good heavens, no…but I am certainly glad it was not I who did.”
I could understand his relief. “What about any of the other homes in the alley?” I asked. “Do you think any of your neighbors saw anything?”
“Well, I can’t be certain of that…” he said, looking over my shoulder. “For one, I know the Mayfields left in the early evening yesterday. They weren’t even here when this all happened.”
“Which house is theirs?” I asked.
“The one directly behind mine,” he said. “And then there’s the butcher, and then across from their home, the Gallette’s, and I know for certain they didn’t see anything either, as I spoke to them this morning after reading the paper. They were just as surprised as I was…”
How had such a murder occurred? And what was Sam doing back there in that alley in the first place?
“I’m sorry I don’t have more information for you,” he said. “These were all the same questions the police asked me earlier. I wish I could have been more helpful.”
“You were very helpful,” I said. “I suppose I should go ask the Hodgins if they saw or heard anything.”
“Perhaps they did,” he said. “Though I can’t imagine they were up as late as that, given their young family.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Englewood.”
“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Lightholder. I certainly hope they are able to find who did this….”
“So do I,” I said.
I bid him goodnight and made my way over to the Gallette’s home. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Mr. Englewood, but it was better to hear it from their mouths.
Just like Mr. Englewood said, they knew nothing about what had occurred the night before. “Everything was quiet, as far as we knew,” Mr. Gallette said. “Nothing out of the ordinary…or so we thought.”
“I’m not certain I will ever let the boys back out there to play again,” Mrs. Gallette said, pulling the shrug she wore more closely around herself. “Knowing such a terrible thing occurred back there. What if the killer comes back?”
That was my fear, too, and I worried that it was someone who would walk through there, and no one would even notice.
These fears kept the nervousness flooding through me as I said goodnight to the Gallette’s, wondering if I would ever find the answers I sought.
I sighed heavily, looking back down into the alleyway.
“Only one more place to check,” I said. “I wonder if Mr. Hodgins saw anything unusual…”
I made my way through the growing darkness, toward the butcher shop, my heart in my throat. Why couldn’t this have been someone else? Why did it have to be Sam Graves, the one man that I needed to solve all of this?
4
I made my way back into the alleyway, paying close attention to all my surroundings.
It was difficult to see clearly, as night had begun to fall, and the shadows were growing in length and depth, their darkness filling every corner and angle like ink, fluid and malleable. The alleyway smelled of damp earth and smoke, the fireplaces of the surrounding houses spewing the billowing air high up into the sky overheard. Aside from my own footsteps, there were no sounds that seemed out of place; a woman sang out her open window half a dozen houses down the row, and a dog barked somewhere near the front of Mr. Englewood’s home.
I noticed the house directly behind Mr. Englewood’s, the house that belonged to the Mayfield’s. It was quiet, as one might expect when the occupants were out of town. All the windows remained dark, and yet something seemed to glint in the light trickling down the alley from the lamp hanging over the back door of the butcher’s shop.
As I drew nearer, I squinted up at it. Had they forgotten to shut off a small lamp before departing? Or
perhaps, and a much worse thought, they forgot to put a candle out?
When I was standing behind it, however, I realized that it was not a light, nor a candle…but a reflection.
A reflection on jagged, broken glass.
One of the windows, too high to reach from the ground, had been broken.
“How awful…” I thought, peering up at it. “And just as soon as the Mayfield’s left on their trip…”
That wasn’t entirely uncommon, though, I knew. Roger had witnessed something similar back when we were recently married.
He’d come home from work, and with a heavy sigh, told me that our neighbor’s home had been broken into.
“Why?” I’d asked. “What happened?”
Roger shrugged. “It doesn’t surprise me much,” he said. “Not when they were telling everyone in town they were going to be gone for three weeks. That’s essentially alerting everyone to the fact that there will be a vacant house, likely with valuables inside.”
“How terrible,” I said, frowning at him. “How could someone rob their neighbors?”
“People aren’t always as kind as you are, my love,” he said. “Though I certainly wish they were.”
That memory, as clear as crystal, faded from my mind as I stared up at the broken window.
It must be exactly the same thing…I thought. Someone knew the Mayfield’s were leaving, and decided to take it as an opportunity to break into their house. What a shame…
There were now two mysteries on hand. Sam’s murder, and the potential robbery of the Mayfield’s home.
Was it possible the broken window was somehow tied to Sam’s death? Had the two events occurred simultaneously?
I made note of it in my mind, and continued on down toward the butcher’s, just to see if anyone there had witnessed anything strange.
I walked through the narrow alley between the butcher’s and Mr. Englewood’s home, and walked up to the front door, where I knocked as loud as I could.