Will and I gazed at each other, the bewilderment in his eyes reflecting my own reaction. "I guess there's a lot about Nathaniel Ryeburn that I never knew," I said. I had no idea how understated my words would seem to me later.
By Saturday evening, the town was full of reporters, including a couple of television camera crews. June had been a slow month for news, it seemed, and the sensation of a body in the basement of a school was something for the front pages of the Ottawa Examiner and even the Toronto Gazette, as well as several seconds of televised news time.
Word quickly spread around town that the Ryeburns were in deep shock and should be left alone. Despite the Ryeburns' odd home life and taciturn attitudes toward the townspeople, no one seemed tempted to allow the rest of the world into their lives. After all, the Ryeburns had been the bridgemen for longer than anyone could remember. The villagers gathered like protective clothing over the former bridgeman and his wife.
At the Main Street Station Pub, Barry Mills distracted the reporters by telling them that he had been "practically first on the scene" and letting them know that the Ryeburns had "gone into seclusion and were not at home". Bill and Marjory Percival and their sons booked everyone into the Burchill Inn and then sent them on expeditions into the countryside looking for the Ryeburns' 'retreat'.
"By the time they figure out there's no retreat," Bill was heard to chuckle, "poor Nat'll be put to rest."
It was more than protecting someone whose history was entwined with theirs, I was to discover. Nathaniel Ryeburn had certainly been the popular man that Ruth McEntyer had described to us. The townspeople genuinely appeared to grieve his loss.
At first, Will and I were terrified that reporters would end up at our door. "This was the reason we came here—to avoid this kind of spotlight," I complained to Will, my tears threatening again. "God, all I seem to do is cry these last few hours."
He wrapped his arms around me, holding me in the deepening shades of two days that had seemed a weeklong. "You're still in shock, honey. That was a horrible experience yesterday morning. As far as the reporters go, it'll be okay. This town is amazing. They'll protect their principal."
He was right. Only one reporter made it to our front porch, and her knock went unanswered. Will and I ate dinner quietly, watching the birds on the lake, listening to the wind in the trees. Slowly I began to feel the calm facade that I'd carefully developed as my trademark, come back to me, fill me with strength and determination to face whatever had to be done.
"Do you think you should come to the service when they have one? What if the reporters are all still around?"
He concentrated on his food for a moment, then glanced up at me. "I look very different from the way I was then. My hair's largely grey, for one thing. And I'm a helluva lot thinner with a great many more wrinkles." He laughed without mirth, the bitter undertones deeper than even I knew. I put my hand on his.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm paranoid. You've been given a pardon, a new name, a new town. You can do whatever you want." I said this last part fiercely, almost defiantly, as if speaking to the reporter whose knocks had echoed through our front hall.
"Em, don't ever apologize for being protective of me. It's perfectly understandable. But we don't have anything to hide, so we'll do this together. I can't say I'm looking forward to being under the scrutiny of the press. It'll bring back too many memories. But, I'm not going to let you do that alone. We have to be prepared for them to ask you lots of questions. We should even be prepared for someone from Ottawa to come and let us know that they know."
I clutched his hand and drank in the spring night air, concentrating on the waves disappearing into the advancing darkness. "We'll cross that bridge..." But I didn't believe, wouldn't believe, that this might be the end of the sanctuary that had been so perfect for the last two years. Burchill was our home.
On Sunday morning, the only venture outdoors was Will's trip to the local Tim Horton's for coffee and bagels. We both planned to huddle in our home. No one from Ottawa summoned. Edgar, in a brief early morning telephone call, let me know that school could begin on Monday as usual.
After breakfast, I sat in my study, looking out at the trees rocking softly in the wind, writing my speech for the assembly I'd decided to hold the next morning. I'd asked Reverend Whitmarsh to conduct a short memorial ceremony to give the children an opportunity to mourn Nat and to help them deal with the intrusion of death into their young minds and hearts. The 'Grief Support Team' from the school board was scheduled to spend a couple of days with us, counselling those who needed it.
Will, from his studio in the side yard, saw him first. I, my view obscured by the trees, only heard the footsteps on the front porch. When I jumped to my feet, I saw the top of a grey hat and a tail as the strangers disappeared onto the veranda. The sound of the doorbell caused me to freeze, my heart pounding.
Chapter 7
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I heard Will's voice greeting the visitors from the yard, and by the time I reached the foyer, Will had opened the front door. On the porch, hat in hand, stood Walter Ryeburn. Beside him, her eyes huge and expectant, sitting quietly, was a beautiful little collie.
My astonishment abating, I walked quickly toward them and extended my hand. "Mr. Ryeburn, how kind of you to visit. Come in."
Walter Ryeburn ignored my hand in favour of twisting his hat in his hands. "Didn't come to visit, ma'am," he said, his voice deep and rumbling, verging on rudeness. "The missus begged me to bring you Angel here. She wants you to keep her. Nat had so many animals, ma'am. We don't rightly know what to do with them all. Guess we'll have to send most of 'em to some Rescue Society. Annie, she's desperate over Angel. Seems she was Nat's favourite and Annie can't stand the thought of her goin' to the Society. Annie thought you might take her." During his long speech, he hadn't raised his eyes once to look in my direction. The dog, in contrast, kept her sad brown eyes fixed on me, as if begging me to understand.
Past Walter, Will stood quietly. I looked at him and he raised his eyebrows, clearly telling me that it was my decision. "We've never had a dog," I said softly, peering down at Angel's face, her fur soft around her long, aristocratic nose, her tongue pink where she panted as she waited. It seemed to me that Angel knew her life was about to change drastically. "What if we don't know what to do?"
"She's not a pure bred collie. She's got some terrier in her, so she's not as big as most collies. She's been fixed. And Nat trained his animals well. She barks a little at strangers, but that can be a help when you live way out here." He waved his hand as if we lived in the centre of nowhere.
I bent down to Angel and the little dog came right into my arms, gently licked my cheek, all the while her brown eyes never leaving my face. "What do you think, Langford? I think I love her already. How about you?"
"Well, it's a bit of a surprise, but I think I like the idea. Can we do it on a trial basis, Walter? I mean, if we don't get along, we'll give you a call and decide what to do about her then."
"Fine with me. It's the Missus who's so worried, not me. I don't really care." He brought forth a small bag that I hadn't noticed. "Here's some dog food that we had left. She's trained, as I said. Can do tricks and all that. Does her business outside. She's a clean animal. Used to sleeping outside in an animal shelter with all the others."
"Come here, Angel," I said, and the dog pattered into the front hall. Will, still holding the door, turned to let Mr. Ryeburn go toward the steps.
This time Walter Ryeburn turned and looked right at me. His eyes were ice cold, glinting with a hatred that I felt like a physical blow. "Like I said, ma'am, Angel was Nat's favourite." With that, he turned, placed his hat on his head, and walked quickly and stiffly away.
As soon as the door was shut, I said, "That man is so strange, Langford. He looked at me just now as if he could kill me. Yet here he is entrusting Nat's favourite pet to us." I ruffled Angel's fur and rubbed my cheek on the dog's neck. She responded with
more kisses.
Will slid down to the floor beside us, his slender hands caressing the dog and me at the same time. "I think you're much better off here, aren't you, girl?" At the sound of his voice, Angel turned and gave a short, soft bark, as if to answer him. We both laughed.
"I think we have a new family member, Will."
"Yup. I think our hearts have been stolen."
The remainder of the day was spent preparing our house for another personality and getting to know one another. I found a big plastic bowl for her food and one for water. Will showed her the lake and talked about getting a leash and a collar. Although we'd never had a dog, we'd had cats in Vancouver, and I realized as the day progressed that we'd missed having a pet. Angel was the easiest, friendliest, sweetest dog I'd ever met, so it was not hard to look back and see how quickly she became beloved.
We discussed where she would sleep and decided that outdoors was just not acceptable. All the while Angel listened, barking her answers softly now and then, gazing at us with trusting brown eyes. If we decided to keep her, we'd bring her to the vet, make sure she'd had her shots, and that she was healthy. And as we talked into the evening, shared our meal with her at our side, the phrase 'if we decide to keep her' entered the conversation less and less.
That night, when we snuggled under our blankets and the cool evening breeze caused the waves to slap the shore noisily but soothingly, Angel herself decided the question of where she would sleep by settling comfortably on the big rug at the foot of our bed. And neither Will nor I objected when, somewhere between the middle of the night and the beginning of day, Angel snuggled between us and distributed plenty of kisses and at least one contented sigh.
The telephone rang, stark and frightening in the silence of the early dawn. I sat bolt upright, heart hammering, and grasped the receiver. Will and Angel watched me carefully.
"Emily, it's Edgar." He rushed on before I could say anything. "It looks like we'll have to keep the school closed today, maybe even for the rest of the week." This time he paused, taking a deep breath. "We've got another murder of sorts."
Chapter 8
My fingers involuntarily curled in Angel's hair. The dog looked up, already alert to my emotions, the tension that electrified the hairs on my hand. "What do you mean—a murder of sorts?"
Edgar cleared his throat, tried unsuccessfully to mask his shaking voice. "Someone is clearly insane, Emily. Someone is playing something really sick and dirty." I waited, my breathing shallow and frightened. "Someone killed Nathaniel's pony, Em. And they put it inside the front door of the school, right outside your office."
A chill went through me, stopping my heart for a beat, stiffening my fingers. Angel whimpered and put her head in my lap. Will grabbed my hand and held tight. "Outside my office? How did they get into the school?"
Edgar sounded tired, defeated. "They must've had a key. I never thought about Nat's keys. I never asked. No one else did either. He had keys, of course. And they must have been stolen." He paused. "The forensic team is here and Doc Harrington has examined the corpse. The animal's throat was cut, then it was left to…" Edgar coughed, sounding as if he were choking on the image.
"How did you find out about it, Ed?" My voice was quiet now, a frozen calm washing over me.
"Someone left a message on the tape at the office last night. Coincidentally, I couldn't sleep, so I went into work at five, I figured I could use the quiet time to prepare for the day. The voice is gravelly, can't even tell if it's male or female. Just says we'd better check the school. Mike and I went in. Soon as we saw it, we locked up again and called Ottawa." He sighed, a wounded, confused, angry sound.
"I'll need to get all the records, Ed, so I can start calling parents and the staff. I can ask May to help out."
"You probably need to call Connie and Peter, too. We'll have to do some damage control. Maybe keep this quiet. We could give some other reason for keeping the school closed. Yeah, I guess you better get over to the school, Em. Sorry to have to do this to you."
I hung up and looked over at Will. In the semidarkness, with the beginning of a cloudy day casting a grey light behind him, his eyes looked huge. I told him what happened, my voice strangely quiet and calm. He insisted that he would come with me.
"But I'm more afraid to leave the house unattended and Angel all alone. Whoever did this to Nat's pony…and Mr. Ryeburn said Angel was
Nat's favourite. I know it's not rational, but I'll ask May to come with me." In the end, I did go without Will, but I drove the car rather than walk, and picked up May on the way.
If Will and I were this frightened, I thought, just imagine what parents would be like. They wouldn't want their children to be outside. Edgar was right. We had to keep this quiet for now, but soon they'd need to know the truth. So far, the sickness had been confined to the school and seemed to circle around Nathaniel, but who could know? Forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes.
May and I were quiet as we headed up the front walk of the school, our shoulders touching, dreading opening that door. Luckily, a heavy rain began to fall. Hopefully, early risers wouldn't see the activity at the school until we were ready for them.
When we reached the front of the school, I was relieved to see Edgar's large frame filling the doorway, blocking our view. "They haven't removed the corpse yet, Emily, May. But it's covered with a sheet. Try not to look. I'll walk you around it quickly and through the other door."
I was not prepared for the odour. The pungent assault on my senses made me think of the animal's suffering and degradation, as it lay helpless while its life poured from its veins. The floor was covered in blood, a deep, rich brownish red that had seeped down the hall and dripped down the stairs toward the gymnasium and staff room.
Chapter 9
Edgar walked us quickly past the body to the other end of the office, where a door led into the health room and through to May's office. There was an inner connecting door to my office, where we could enter without stepping into the carnage outside. I immediately went to my private files and got Peter and Connie's home numbers. Using the conference call option, I spoke to the Superintendent and Trustee together.
Following Edgar's advice, I told them not to come to the school, but to get the wheels in motion for closing the school for at least this week and perhaps the entire two that remained of the school year. Both were of the opinion that the public should be informed about the second killing. Connie in particular agreed with me that parents needed to be warned in order to take extra precautions.
It was decided, finally, that a team of office personnel would be assembled within the hour at the board office. Parents would be called, informed about the death of the pony, and told that the school would have to be closed until further notice. They would be cautioned to be very alert, although the case did not appear to be one of aggression against children, but one centered around Nathaniel Ryeburn. If any parents were not reached by telephone, they would be met by the police who were, even as we spoke, surrounding the school building.
The school board Trustees were also to be assembled for a special meeting tomorrow night, to determine whether to keep the school closed only one week, or two weeks early for the summer break, as well as how to best handle the inevitable press coverage. Of course my presence was expected.
When I had finished the call, I stood still in my office, listening to my heartbeat. I looked at May and we threw our arms around each other, holding on for support and strength. I tried to banish the images of Nathaniel and the animal, both oozing their lifeblood along the floors of the school Nat had loved and worked in for so long. The question remained, why? Why would anyone want to kill that gentle, big- hearted man? I closed my eyes and saw him lumbering toward me, smiling shyly, asking me if I wanted him to go out and collect the mail for the day.
"May, why would anyone want to kill Nathaniel? And then underline it by killing an innocent animal? There must be a message in that, but who's it for?"
May
sat down heavily and shook her head. "Nat was the sweetest man, almost childlike, don't you think? Plus he was so well liked by everyone, I think because he was such a good listener. You could see people down at the bridge all the time, talking to him."
I sat down too and stared vacantly out the window. I remembered Ruth McEntyer words. "That's something I never knew about Nat. I never... I don't think we really talked about anything other than school." I hesitated. "And his animals. He would tell me lots of stories about them, about this one that was wounded and how he helped it, or about a bird that he found and how he nursed it back into flight. I don't think I ever thought of him separately from the school. Nat and the school building seemed to be, I don't know, almost one. That was pretty callous of me, when I think about it now. As if he didn't exist as a person."
"You're always so hard on yourself. It's amazing how differently you see things! What I saw was that Nathaniel Ryeburn never—and I knew him his whole life—he never talked to anyone the way he talked to you."
I looked up into May's intelligent eyes.
"You're so good, Emily, and you don't even know it. I think it's because your people skills are completely natural to you. You think everyone's the way you are. Nat told you so much about himself, about his life. And you always responded in that perfect way. You always made him feel like you were equals, not the way some principals see a caretaker. He adored you. For everyone else, he was the bridgeman. And that carried a certain stigma in this town or a perceived social responsibility, I guess you might say." May got up and looked out the window, as if picturing Nathaniel by the canal.
"Every day, before coming here, and afterwards, he'd be down by the canal, standing by the locks, oiling them, making sure every gear and gadget was working. And every day you could see people coming up to him and talking, talking, talking. It was a Burchill tradition. All the bridgemen were the town counsellors over the years."
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