by Sarah Lark
Violet looked at Mr. Tibbot. It was hard for her to see clearly. Both her eyes were almost swollen shut, and her tongue lay like a dry clump in her mouth. She had to try twice before she could get the words out.
“He’s dead?” she asked.
The men brought Eric Fence to Colin’s house, and a police officer questioned Colin gruffly. Two men who had been drinking together, one of whom had clearly been beaten and the other of whom broke his neck the next day because something was not right with a horse or its harnessing. It was suspicious at the least. Mrs. Robertson, however, confirmed that Colin had not left the house. Mr. Tibbot stated that none of the apprentices or stableboys had been occupied with the horse. Even now, he said, only the girl who took care of the horse after the accident was in the stables.
“Looks like it really was an accident,” the officer said to Violet. After the questioning at Colin’s house, the officer went to speak with Violet at the summerhouse. He explained that the men at the racetrack had called him after they had retrieved Eric and brought the frenzied horse to a stop with Rosie’s help. The officer had looked at what was left of the sulky and the harness. “A little carelessness. Your husband—” The officer bit his lip when he saw Violet’s battered face but then decided to calmly say his piece. The woman must know in what condition her husband had been the day before. She also seemed rather collected now. The cook had helped her wash and dress. “Your husband seems to have had a great deal to drink last night and did not devote the, uh, necessary attention to harnessing his horse. In any case, the sulky came loose, the horse panicked, and it ran against the fencing.”
“Nothing happened to the horse?” Violet asked. She was concerned for Rosie.
“Nothing serious as far as could be determined.” The officer seemed vexed. “Your husband, however, was flung over the racetrack’s wall. He died instantly.”
Violet nodded. She could hardly believe it. She would not need to take the train. Eric would not touch her again.
“If you want to see him, the men brought him into the house, but he’s, hmm, not a pretty sight. The undertaker has been notified.”
Violet nodded again. “I need to look after my sister,” she said quietly. “If you’ll excuse me.” She hoped that Mrs. Robertson was taking care of Roberta and Joe. Especially Joe. With luck, he had not heard too much about it. Dear Lord, she should be taking care of him. She could only think of Rosie, however. She had been in the stables.
Violet tried to run, but she only managed to limp. She saw the chestnut mare tied in front of the stables—thank God, really nothing seemed to have happened to the horse. And Rosie was taking care of it, so she was not terrified and silent in a corner of the stables either.
On the contrary, as Violet came closer, what she heard made the blood run cold in her veins. Rosie was singing. A happy little song, a tune she had learned from Caleb Biller. She was washing the horse, smiling and singing.
She had not sung in years.
Violet wanted to think about everything alone somewhere. But then she saw Joe coming out of the stables. His face was pale as a corpse, his cheeks showed traces of tears, and his eyes looked unnaturally enlarged. He was going to run to Violet, but then he saw Rosie, and his eyes narrowed. Naked hate spoke from them.
“It was her,” he yelled, pointing at Rosie. “She did it.”
Violet slapped him in the face.
Chapter 10
The little horse snorted as Violet finally brought it to a stop in front of the parsonage. It was now not so scrawny, but pulling the hay wagon, it still did not move very quickly. Besides, Violet had gotten lost several times before she found the suburb of Dunedin where Reverend Burton’s church stood. Thus, it was almost midnight and as dark as it had been back when Violet and Rosie first sought sanctuary here many years ago.
Peter Burton even had a sense of déjà vu when he saw the young woman and the girl standing before the door after their knocking had roused him from bed. This time, however, it was not Rosie clinging to Violet exhausted but Roberta. Rosie was with the horse, which had walked alongside, hitched to the hay wagon. Dancing Rose, she explained to Violet, had never been away from home before. She shouldn’t get frightened.
“Is Heather here?” asked Violet, without pausing for a salutation or her once-so-common curtsy.
The light of the oil lamp the pastor held in his hand fell on Violet’s face, and Peter saw the devastating traces of blows but also exhaustion and anxiety. He shook his head. Heather and Chloe had arrived in Dunedin, but they were living in their apartment above Dunloe’s Bank and the Gold Mine Boutique. Heather was not feeling well. In any case, it did not seem to be bad. Sean had spoken with the women. After that, he had taken care of a few other things in the city that probably had to do with him pushing back his trip to Christchurch. In any case, he would be staying until the next morning. He was staying the night in the parsonage but had only come home when Peter and Kathleen were already sleeping.
“Sean’s the only one of the children here,” noted Peter without having the slightest idea what he thereby unleashed.
“Sean’s here?” Violet asked disbelievingly. “Sean is here?”
Peter wondered what she found so aberrant about that. After all, this was more or less his parents’ house, so why would he stay in a hotel?
“Can I, then can I speak with Sean, please?”
Violet sank down on the steps leading to the front door and began to weep bitterly.
The mention of Violet’s name tore Sean Coltrane out of his deep sleep and set him into action. Get dressed? He could not appear in his bathrobe. Shave? Peter had said it was urgent, so better not. Heavens, hopefully he did not look like he had been out all night. Sean was no teetotaler. That evening he had drunk champagne with Heather and Chloe and then whiskey with his old colleagues from the law office. What would she think of him if she smelled it on him? Brush the teeth, rinse the mouth. What had happened that Violet was there in the middle of the night?
Sean already had agreed with Jimmy Dunloe to come back to Dunedin after fulfilling his obligations in Christchurch so they could go to Invercargill. By then, they figured, Colin should have calmed down enough that they could speak with him. Sean and Chloe’s stepfather wanted to retrieve Chloe’s belongings and her horse, and offer Rosie a post in Dunedin. Sean had planned to speak with Violet then too. Chloe had agreed to take her and the children in as long as Violet left Eric.
Now Violet was at the kitchen table, sobbing desperately, her head buried in her arms. He only saw her tousled chestnut-brown hair. Beside her, her well-mannered daughter sat straight up. The delicate girl was her spitting image. Roberta was primly dressed—why in black, however, escaped Sean’s understanding. Even her long, chestnut-brown hair was tied with a black ribbon into a ponytail. She sipped a cup of cocoa and looked exhausted and concerned for her mother.
“Rosie is still in the stables with Chloe’s horse,” Kathleen said. “Peter, show her where she can put it up.”
“And the boy?” asked Sean. He remembered clearly that Violet had three children with her when he had seen her at the rally in Christchurch.
“He ran away,” Violet sobbed. “I slapped him, and he’s gone, and now he’s going to tell everyone. They can’t lock her up. Sean, please, you’re a lawyer. You—”
She raised her head and looked directly into Sean’s pale-green eyes. His slender face showed alarm at the sight of her swollen eyes and her busted lip, and, too, heartfelt concern.
Sean’s dark hair was somewhat thinner than before. He looked older, but more important, more distinguished. Violet felt better at once. It was like magic.
“Violet, why don’t you give yourself a moment to calm down, and then you can tell me everything that happened? No one’s going to be locked up any time soon. Unless it is whoever did this to you.” He indicated Violet’s face. “That man could be locked up quickly.”
“He’s already burning in hell,” she said calmly. “And Rosi
e killed him.”
“Well, there’s no question of murder in any case,” Sean explained after Violet had told him what she thought she knew and what she was sure Joe had seen. “If there’s an inquiry, which I doubt, then the most someone could prove is that Rosie was negligent. Regardless, Mr. Fence would meet with an appropriate amount of complicity. He should have checked the harnessing. You always check the girth before mounting if a groom saddles it.”
Violet nodded. Now that Sean was speaking with her, she felt secure. As secure as she ever had in her life. But she was dead tired. Violet just wanted to sleep, and she would have liked to lean on Sean’s shoulder for that. She forced herself to keep listening attentively.
“Joe will tell Mr. Coltrane and maybe the police officer,” she objected. “And Mr. Coltrane will say Rosie is feebleminded, and they’ll send her to an institution.”
Sean shook his head. “Nonsense,” he said. “Likely he’ll tell Colin—it was a mistake to hit the boy and then let him get away, Violet. You should have stayed until he reappeared. And it would have been best not to hit him. Oh well, you know that. My brother won’t volunteer to bring the police back. It will all come out in the wash, Violet, believe me. But you should go back and attend the funeral. You need to retrieve your son. If you want, I’ll come.”
Violet looked up at Sean, disbelieving. “You, you want to come with me?” Her battered face formed a weak smile.
“I thought you need to go to Christchurch, Sean?” Kathleen said.
Sean squared himself. “They’ll get by without me in Christchurch,” he said. “But this here.” He let his gaze pass over Violet and smiled. “This I’ve already put off too long.”
Violet’s battered body refused to work. The Burtons brought in a doctor who advised no less than a week of bed rest. Violet stayed with the Burtons. After that, Sean accompanied her, as promised, to Invercargill. Roberta rode along, wearing the mourning dress Mrs. Robertson had put on her immediately after Eric’s death. Rosie stayed with Heather and Chloe.
As Sean expected, Colin did not mention the cause of the accident at the funeral. He had organized the burial without bringing the police officer in again, and at the graveside, the pastor spoke of bad luck, but he could not refrain from saying a few admonishing words about the devil’s water. Joe stood between Colin and Violet and listened with a scrunched face. In his Sunday suit and his father’s cap, which he had worn constantly since the accident, he looked hauntingly like Eric. Violet had to force herself to be nice to him.
“He behaved badly,” Mrs. Robertson said. “I wanted to care for him, since you seem to have forgotten him. I’m not blaming you, Violet. It was all too much. But he was just angry and mean and said awful things about poor Rosie. That she was to blame for his father. Rosie! That girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. I had to wash his mouth out with soap.”
Violet gave her son an apologetic look. He did not return it. Mrs. Robertson’s measures had been drastic but effective. Eric’s death was not discussed. Joe revolted, though, and threw a fit in which he insisted on remaining in Invercargill.
“Mr. Coltrane will take me as an apprentice,” he said. “He promised me.”
“You’re too young,” Violet argued.
Sean scrutinized the boy. Joe was eleven years old—a bit too young for a post, but not all that young. What was more, the boy was tall and strong. Sean thought of Colin. He had been about the same age when he refused to leave Ian Coltrane when his mother and siblings did. Kathleen had given her son up then. And now Violet.
“You should be going to school,” said Violet. She had been sending her children to the village school, but she knew that Joe often skipped in favor of helping in the stables.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Joe.
Now Colin was approaching, and Sean steeled himself for a new confrontation. Before the burial, the brothers had only exchanged a few words.
“Well, if it isn’t my wonderful brother. Who sent you to serve as guardian angel to our Mrs. Fence? My beloved sister or my beloved wife?” Colin fixed Sean with a brutal look.
“Neither one,” Sean said calmly. “I don’t practice law anymore, but you’ll be hearing from Chloe. Heather will forego a complaint about the assault. Circumstances were, after all, a bit, hmm, embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” Colin rumbled. “Two naked whores on my—”
“Hold your tongue, Colin,” Sean ordered. “Or do you want to let all Invercargill know that your wife left you for another woman? I’m here as Violet’s friend. She wants to liquidate her household, which I’m sure is fine by you. And she’s taking her son with her.”
Colin shook his head. “The boy stays here. That was a promise to Eric. He’ll learn from me.”
“Horse swindling?” Sean asked with an ironic smile.
“This is a recognized racing stable,” Colin said brusquely. “And really you should be happy about any child you can find work and bread for, Mrs. Fence. You’ll have a hard enough time feeding the rest of your dependents.”
Violet bit her lip. It was true. Eric had not left her any money. Roberta was only ten. Violet would have to find work and a place to live. She looked to Sean for help.
“You know best, Violet,” he said calmly.
She hesitated.
“She’s still thinking about it,” Sean said to Colin. “Would you like to go to your house, Violet?” He carefully placed his hand on her shoulder. He would have liked to hug her. However, he could not move too quickly. Violet would need time. “You did want to take a few things, didn’t you?”
Violet shook her head. In truth, she had thrown everything she needed into the hay wagon. Violet was used to relocating quickly, and she did not own much. Nonetheless, she let Sean lead her into the house. Perhaps she could make some tea. It would be nice to just sit there with Sean and drink tea.
“Mommy, is it true that we won’t have anything to eat anymore?” Roberta asked shyly.
Sean looked around the summerhouse’s small but tidy rooms. So, this was where had she lived. Considerably better than the shack in Woolston, but the children still would have heard what transpired between their parents.
Violet gently put her arm around her daughter and pulled her close. The girl looked astoundingly like her. Like Violet long ago, she seemed too serious for her age and too smart.
“We’re poor, that’s true, dear,” Violet said softly. “But I’ll find work, don’t you worry. And as long—”
“You could just bet on horses,” Roberta asserted, freeing herself from the embrace.
While Sean and Violet looked at each other, confused, and Violet searched for a reply that would not portray Roberta’s father as a scoundrel but would indicate the depravity of gambling, Roberta fished a red notebook from the corner her father had grandly called his “office.”
“Here,” Roberta said, holding the book out to her mother. “Joe showed it to me. Inside it says which horse is going to win.”
“This is unbelievable,” said Sean after he and Violet had studied the entries.
At first, the names of the pubs and betting offices and the lists of horse names did not say all that much to them, but then Violet remembered.
“It was a sensation back then when she won,” she said, pointing to the name of the mare Annabelle. “Chloe fought with Colin over it. He had sold her as a racehorse, but Chloe didn’t think she was one. She was slow and not suited to breeding for some reason. Mr. Coltrane was supposed to take her back, and he said he would if she didn’t come in first in a race the next week.”
“And?” Something was dawning on Sean.
“She really did win. Chloe was flabbergasted.”
“Mrs. Coltrane must still have been blindly in love,” snorted Sean. “Violet, unless I’ve completely missed my guess, this here is a list of rigged bets. That Eric of yours noted down all of Colin’s crooked dealings.”
“But why?” Violet asked, taken aback. “I mean, he was involved himself. He w
as always going from place to place and making bets elsewhere. I thought something was rotten. After all, he could have just put his tenner down on Mr. Coltrane’s horses here.”
Sean laughed. “He put down more than that. Look here: a hundred pounds in Christchurch, fifty in Dunedin.” He pointed to neat lists documenting betting amounts in various gambling offices.
“But he could not have bet that much. He didn’t earn that much.”
Sean shook his head. “He placed the bets for Colin. And the apprentices and jockeys they employed here probably had a hand in it too. Eric made the bets—as far from here as possible and probably under assumed names—and Colin pocketed the money.”
“Eric had to do it because Mr. Coltrane could not bet on his own horse?” asked Violet.
Sean shrugged. “I don’t know for sure; I don’t gamble. But you’re not allowed to rig races. And if you take a close look here, the victors are noted before the bets were placed. Roberta is quite right: the book says which horse will win.”
“But why did he write it down?” Violet thumbed through the notebook. Eric had kept accounts for years. “It incriminates him as much as Mr. Coltrane.”
Sean shrugged. “Maybe he just had a bad memory and had to note the horses he was supposed to bet on. Or he wanted to have something against Colin just in case he did throw him out someday—he was a thorn in Chloe’s side, after all. Perhaps it was also aimed at her. She would have rather kept Eric or paid him hush money than have thrown her husband to the wolves.”
“But Mrs. Coltrane would never have covered this up,” Violet said, completely convinced.
Sean shook his head. “No, she would perhaps have left Colin once she found out. But she would have avoided the social scandal. She would not have reported him. And everything would have been back to how Mr. Fence liked it.”