A Simple Country Killing

by Blythe Baker

  Sam rubbed his chin. “I have two minds about you leaving for the war, son,” he said. “One, I think it’s honorable, and if you feel that it’s best to keep Rachel’s father’s wishes, even now that he is gone, then I think you should be able to do just that. Perhaps things will be different when you return. However…” he laid a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “The other part of me wonders if you mean to run away because you were the one, in fact…who killed the vicar in the first place.”

  Lucas looked as if he’d swallowed a stone. “Me? Kill Mr. James?” he asked. “N – no, I would never. Of course, I was upset with his choice, but I never would have – never even thought about – ”

  Sam loosened his grip on the young man. “All right, all right. I believe you. I’ve been at this job long enough to know when someone’s lying,” he said. “What about Rachel?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “Would she ever be capable of something like that?”

  Lucas looked even more disgusted than before. “Absolutely not,” he said. “She may have been furious with her father for keeping us apart, and they may not have seen eye to eye on many things…but she did love him, and longed for his acceptance. If I know her, she will be bitter over not being able to make peace with him before he died.”

  “That would certainly explain her attitude…” I said in a low voice behind Sam.

  Sam nodded. “When do you leave for basic training, son?” he asked.

  “In about three weeks,” Lucas said. “And then I likely won’t be back for a long while.

  Sam glanced over his shoulder at me. “That means we have three weeks to solve this for sure,” he said. He looked back at Lucas. “Stay in Brookminster until I call and let you know this has all been resolved. As a suspect, I cannot let you leave town.”

  Lucas nodded firmly. “Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

  Sam and I left the shop a few minutes later.

  Sam lingered outside the door, staring at something in the far distance.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “He’s not lying,” he said. “He really did respect Mr. James. He may be angry about the situation, but he doesn’t have it in him to commit murder.”

  “And Rachel?” I asked.

  Sam shrugged. “Lucas seems to think that she’s innocent, too. And I’m inclined to believe him when he says that she wouldn’t have done it. He looked me straight in the eye with every word he spoke.”

  I sighed, leaning against the car. “Where does this leave our investigation, then?” I asked. “We’re back at square one if we rule them both out.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders, his keys jingling as he pulled them from his pocket. “Indeed, it seems we are. Unfortunately, this is how most of these cases go. We are just going to have to be patient.”

  “How?” I asked. “This means my name will be back at the top of the suspect list.”

  “No,” Sam said, glaring at me over the top of the car. “No, that’s not what it means. We just need to go back to the beginning, retrace the steps already examined, and we will find the answers. I promise you.”

  “And what if we don’t?” I asked. “What if we find nothing, and my name is never cleared? Doesn’t that happen sometimes? The murderer gets away?”

  Sam’s jaw tightened, but he met my gaze with a level, blue one. “It does happen, yes,” he said, regret coating his words. “But that doesn’t mean it will this time.”

  I yanked the door open, crawling inside, exasperated.

  He was not far behind.

  “What about the autopsy?” I asked as we started off back toward the center of the village. “Did that reveal anything interesting?”

  Sam said, “Now that you mention it, I haven’t received the report yet. Perhaps it will be finished today. That’s good thinking, Mrs. Lightholder.”

  I agreed to go into the station with him, under the same pretense that I was Nathanial’s cousin Penelope, in from London. When we arrived, I was astounded that no one seemed to see past my weak disguise. Maybe nobody there had ever looked too closely at my face before.

  “Did the coroner come in today?” Sam asked at the receptionist’s desk before we walked away.

  “He did, yes, and the report is on your desk,” she said.

  It was amazing how kind the woman could be when she didn’t recognize me.

  “Thank you,” Sam said, and we turned and started toward his office.

  He closed the door behind us, and I peeled off my coat and hat, eager for some fresh air. “What does it say?” I asked.

  Sam glared at me over his desk. “How would I know? I haven’t even opened the file yet.”

  I blushed, and took a seat across from him. “My apologies,” I said, brushing some of my now red hair from my cheeks.

  Sam regarded me over the top of the file, his eyes narrowing. “You know…I think I prefer you brunette,” he said.

  The color in my face deepened as his eyes landed back on the page in his hands.

  “…yes, all right…” he muttered under his breath. “…time of day, yes, evening, I know…Ah, here it is.”

  He placed the file on the desk, spinning it so that I might see it as well. He pressed his finger to a diagram of a long, thin knife that looked as if it had been sketched by hand, out of speculation.

  “This must be similar to whatever it was that killed him,” Sam said.

  “That’s a very odd shaped knife, isn’t it?” I asked, peering up at him. “Who would have such a thing?”

  Sam rubbed his jaw, studying the image. “I’m not certain. It says here that the wound itself was clean, as though the blade was double-edged. Not only that, but the weapon was so long that it was able to puncture completely through his right lung, almost all the way to his back.”

  “That’s no ordinary kitchen knife,” I said, my stomach churning.

  “No, it certainly is not,” Sam said. “It makes me wonder…it’s thin enough, that it could have been some sort of combat knife, perhaps one used in the last war.”

  My stomach dropped. “A soldier’s weapon?”

  Sam’s brow knit together. “It’s not as farfetched as it sounds. There are plenty of veterans here in the village,” he said. “And it’s possible that some of their weapons could still be around somewhere.”

  He pulled the case file back toward himself. “Yes, this knife is the answer. I think it will be the key to solving this whole thing.”

  “I guess we will need to ask Rachel James or Lucas Adams about it…” I said.

  But then my stomach twisted.

  “Wait…” I said, staring up at Sam. “The old man…”

  “What old man?” he asked.

  “The one who lives near the church,” I reminded him impatiently. “He’s probably too old to have served in the last war…He must be seventy or more. But perhaps he had a son in the fighting, or someone who brought him back a few things…I’ve always felt there was something suspicious about him.”

  Sam’s brow furrowed. “There’s nothing wrong with following a hunch,” he said. “But it’s going to require more than a vague suspicion for me to bring him down here for questioning.”

  “Leave that to me,” I said. “You talk to Rachel and Lucas.” I snatched my jacket and hat off the back of the chair. “I’ll speak to the man again.”

  “Just be careful, Helen,” Sam said, sounding somewhat exasperated. “Every time you go digging for information, you seem to get more than you bargained for.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll be careful this time.”

  13

  The elderly man was all I could think about as I left the police station.

  I made my way back to the Driscoll’s house, where Irene and Nathanial were waiting for me to explain what had occurred during my day.

  “We didn’t find any answers,” I said. “Except to learn that we don’t think Rachel James or Lucas Adams are the ones who killed Mr. James.”

  “So where does t
hat leave you?” Irene asked, her brow furrowing.

  “With few options,” I said. “I told Sam I was going to go and investigate one of our other leads this evening.”

  “What lead might that be?” Nathanial asked.

  “I…I shouldn’t tell you,” I said. “Things are becoming quite sticky, and Inspector Graves is the only one, aside from you two, who believes in my innocence. If any other policemen come around here looking for me, I would rather you didn’t know anything, so you aren’t involved.”

  “But – ” Irene said.

  “No,” I said. “It’s better this way. But don’t worry. I’m just going to go do a little bit of looking, and then I’ll come back. All right? Please don’t wait up for me. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”

  Nathanial and Irene exchanged nervous looks.

  “Just be careful,” Irene said. “Please?”

  “I will,” I said.

  I waited until nightfall, even until Irene and Nathanial retired for the night.

  Nothing good happens after midnight…I heard my father saying in my mind. He was adamant that people made their choices during the day. He wasn’t wrong. It was the time when inhibitions were lost, and violent things happened.

  I dressed in dark colors, donning comfortable shoes that I could walk in without making much noise, and did my best to tie my newly cut hair back. It was a chore, as it was just short enough to not want to stay in the clip I wrestled it into.

  Regardless, I departed the Driscoll’s home, making my way into the night.

  Brookminster was almost entirely silent. Families were tucked into their beds, and dogs were lying faithfully at the ends of those beds, dreaming of chasing squirrels and the postman.

  The only sounds were the crickets humming as the final days of summer came to a close. The streetlights glowed warmly, but I did my best to avoid their pools of light, keeping to the shadows instead.

  Are you here, Roger? I wondered. Are you out here tonight with me, watching me like you always seem to be?

  The idea of him keeping an eye on me gave me courage to keep my focus, moving ever closer to Mr. Grey’s home.

  The church appeared as I reached the center of the village, cresting the top of the hill where it sat. Across the street, tucked away between two other homes, was the shabby cottage that belonged to Mr. Barty Grey.

  I wished I knew if he was home or not, and if he was a light sleeper or not.

  He’s elderly, so he is likely home, I thought, standing across the street in a patch of shadows, staring at the house. And given the same reasoning, he is likely a light sleeper. Am I even capable of breaking in without him noticing?

  I couldn’t believe I was attempting this, but I had no choice. Time was truly running out, and it was now or never. And never was not an option right now.

  I took a steadying breath, and started across the street toward his house, steeling my nerves.

  How would Roger handle this? I thought as I stopped at the low, stone wall around the house. Would he go through a window? Or would he try the door?

  My heart pounded in my head as I debated between the two options. How was I going to explain myself if the old man found me?

  I hopped the low wall easily, without making much of a sound. I hunched down behind the wall, not wanting any stray passersby to see me.

  Maybe I should check around the back of the house, I thought, glancing over my shoulder as I started toward the garden, keeping low to the ground.

  Twigs snapped under my feet, making me stop in my tracks, my heart beating so fast it ached. Pausing to look around, I waited for someone to appear, to chase me, to yell out and stop me.

  When I reached the back of the garden, I noticed a thicket of trees pressing up against a narrow strip of grass, which was filled with as much clutter as the front yard. I also noticed a cellar built into the house itself, which was closed up with metal doors.

  A bomb shelter? I wondered. That might be a safer place to check first.

  Approaching the doors, I held my breath, not wanting to be caught.

  Reaching out for the door, I tugged, and was surprised when it gave easily.

  The gaping hole revealed beneath was a vast depth of shadows. I couldn’t see past the third stair leading down.

  I swallowed hard, set the door down gently on the grass, and started down the stairs.

  On the fourth stair, as my body felt as if it was being absorbed by the shadows themselves, my foot struck something glass, causing it to clatter against the stair.

  I groped around with my fingers, and hope sparked within me.

  A lantern!

  With a few twists of the metal dial set into the base, a flame flickered into life.

  There isn’t much oil in here, I noticed. I need to move quickly.

  The light helped guide me down to the base of the stairs, where I found myself in a cool, damp stone cellar. The ceiling was low, the walls moist with trickling water, and a smell of mold hung in the air, making it hard to breathe.

  I held the lantern up above my head, looking around the room.

  It wasn’t a large cellar, but it looked as if it was set up for a secondary home. A low cot with a stained, thin mattress was in one corner, and a metal chest stood in front of it. Shelves lined the wall on either side of another staircase, likely leading to the rest of the house, stocked with preserved foods and other necessaries like blankets and jugs of water. Boxes were stacked and carefully labeled.

  Such a difference from the front yard…I realized, walking further into the room. He must really take his doomsday preparations seriously.

  I set the lantern down on the table beside the bed, wandering over to the shelves to examine the contents more closely.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that there was nothing special or out of the ordinary there.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the metal chest that stood at the foot of the dirty, rusted cot. My heart skipped. If anything questionable were to be hidden somewhere…

  I walked over to it, kneeling down in front of it, and lifted the lid.

  I gasped, falling back onto my hands, my stomach twisting into knots.

  A long, narrow knife rested atop a towel just inside, almost a perfect match to the blade that the coroner had drawn on the autopsy report he had given Sam.

  It was pristine, shining in the light of the lantern, as if it had been recently polished.

  Which would make sense, if it was recently used to kill the vicar…I thought.

  I looked around, and war trophies began to reveal themselves to me. A jacket thrown over a chair with patches in the sleeve and pins on the breast pocket, indicating some sort of rank. A flag pinned to the wall behind the stack of boxes. A rifle hanging on a peg beside the stairs where I’d entered the bunker. It seemed that I was right about someone having brought him items back from the last war. Either that, or the old man himself had fought in some prior war. I wasn’t familiar enough with these items to be certain of their age, but it didn’t really matter where they had come from.

  I stood, staring down into the chest. This was it. This was the proof I needed.

  Barty Grey had been the one to kill Mr. James.

  “I should have known there was something suspicious about you…”

  A light shone into the dark room, the bright bulb of a flashlight pointed right at my eyes.

  I threw up my arm, trying to block the piercing glow making me squint.

  Footsteps echoed down the stairwell, leading up into the rest of the house, and I could just make out the silhouette of a man coming to a stop at the bottom.

  “You’re the one who was snooping around the church the other day, aren’t you?” he asked. “Asking all those questions about the vicar, and if I’d seen anything funny…”

  I glanced toward the door, wondering if I could make it up there without him catching me.

  “So, you are working with the police like I thought?” he asked.

&nb
sp; I didn’t want to answer. There was no reason why I had to answer him, anyways. If he intended to fight me, trying to talk to him would not change his mind.

  “I caught you red handed,” he said. “You may as well have been holding that knife you seem so fascinated to have found.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was holding a weapon or anything, but I knew that I didn’t have long to make a decision. He hadn’t been the steadiest on his feet, and I was significantly younger than he was. If I made a run for it…

  “What, cat got your tongue?” Mr. Grey asked, taking another step toward me. “Say something!”

  The only thing I heard was the sound of my own blood surging through my ears.

  You can do it, I told myself, not even realizing that I’d somehow formulated a plan. One…two…

  “Hey,” Mr. Grey barked, waving the flashlight in my face. “Listen to me when I’m talking to you!”

  Without waiting another moment, I wheeled around and snatched the knife from the inside of the metal trunk. In that same breath, I vaulted toward the door, willing my feet to carry me as fast as they possibly could.

  “Hey!” Mr. Grey shouted after me as I bolted up the stairs leading back outside. “Get back here!”

  I kept the knife close to my chest, careful not to catch it on my clothing or my flesh, as the blade was bare. The cold metal bit through the fabric of my blouse as I ran.

  I’d barely made it to the back garden, the coolness of the night stealing the heat from my face, when I heard him tearing up the stairs after me. Was his weakness, his leaning on his cane, all a ruse?

  I kept running, having to vault over some boxes strewn about in the side yard, careful to keep my head low and my eyes focused on my escape route.

  He was close on my heels, though. I heard him yelling at me, though nothing was clear or coherent.

  I needed to get to the police station, but I was going to have to lose him first.

  I stared around, my mind working faster than I could register.

  Where could I hide? Behind a tree? In the cemetery somewhere?

  A light in a window inside the church caught my attention. Who could have been there at this hour?