“Best of luck with your article,” Pugh called after him. “I hope you get the slant you’re looking for. Remember, human complexity.”
“Thank you, sir. I will keep that in mind.”
Chapter Twenty
WALTER HAD SET HIS DAUGHTER DOWN on the davenport, and she’d hardly stirred since. She had her thumb in her mouth and was clutching her rag doll tight to her neck, her eyes fixed on the door. As if she was a little dog, waiting for her master, thought Maria Newcombe.
She sawed off a few thick slices of bread from the fresh loaf she had baked that morning; cut one of the pieces in two and dipped it into the pot of gravy that was on the stove.
“Here, Sally, would you like a taste?”
The child shook her head, although to Maria’s mind she looked pinched and hungry.
“It’s good.”
Another shake. “All right then, I’ll have to eat it myself.”
She did, chewing and swallowing the bread with appropriate sounds of enjoyment. Sally watched her solemnly.
Maria licked her fingers and wiped them on her apron. The little girl’s eyes were dark like her mother’s; her expression was perpetually wary.
“Now, now, Sally,” said Maria, “you’re too big a girl to be sucking your thumb. That’s dirty.”
She made an expression of disgust and took hold of Sally’s hand to pry it away from her face. The child shrank back, resisting her. Maria decided not to persist. There was something about the look Sally gave her that was unsettling.
“Very well then. I’ve known children who sucked their thumbs, and they all ended up with a face that was out of shape. They looked like weasel snouts. You wouldn’t want that, would you? A pretty girl like you.”
Sally removed her thumb from her mouth, but Maria didn’t feel as if she had won a victory.
“That’s a good girl. Would you like a bread dip now?”
Another head shake from Sally. Maria had to admit to herself that, try as she might, she couldn’t take to the child; and she was a woman who loved children and was adored by them in return. Perhaps the problem lay with Sally’s lack of response to everybody except her father. She was no chatterbox the way most children her age were; and when Maria was minding her, she mostly remained quietly on the sofa, playing with her dolly. Her mother had made it for her, and it was artfully done. The body was cut from a piece of Holland towelling and stuffed with soft bits of wool. Jess had painted a cheery face on the head and glued on dark brown wool hair that was tied into long braids. The smock was pale blue cotton with some pretty embroidery at the bodice. Sally had named it Pansy, and she sat by the hour talking quietly to herself as she played her games.
Lately Walter had been forced to bring the child to the tavern more and more when he was working. He didn’t say much about it, just that Jessica was feeling poorly and he thought it better if Sally wasn’t underfoot for a while.
Maria didn’t really mind. She actually forgot the child was there sometimes she was such a mouse. She sighed. She couldn’t really blame the poor scrap for the way she was. She was about to continue with her tasks when she was caught by the forlorn look on Sally’s face. She certainly could do with some cheering up. Maria went over to the window seat and opened up the lid. In his rare leisure moments, Vince enjoyed working with his hands, and he had made some doll furniture for Sally. They had intended to give it to her at Christmas, but Maria thought the girl needed something jolly now.
“Here you go. Mr. Newcombe made these for you.”
With some hesitation, Sally took the box and lifted the lid. Then her expression changed, and she smiled in pleasure.
“Do you like them?” Maria asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” Before being prompted, she added, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Newcombe.” She stood up and Maria offered her cheek for a kiss.
“They are made to fit Pansy. She can sit and have her tea like a princess.”
Sally put the two wooden chairs and the table on the floor and propped the doll into one of the chairs. She fitted nicely, and Maria felt a glow of satisfaction. Making the furniture had been her idea.
“Can I play with the scrap bag?” Sally asked.
“You certainly can. You know where it is.”
Sally trotted back to the window seat, and Maria returned to the stove.
The door to the kitchen opened and Lacey peered in.
“Two orders of pork and potatoes, if you please, Missus. One’s for Mr. Pugh, and he wants extra crackling. The other’s Mr. Craig’s, and he just wants the usual, not too much gravy.”
“Look, Poppa. Mrs. Newcombe gave them to me.”
Sally was indicating the furniture. Lacey nodded. “That’s lovely. I hope you’re being a good girl.”
“Yes, Poppa.”
Lacey glanced at Maria questioningly. “She’s doing quite all right, Walter. Hasn’t mithered once today.”
He looked relieved. “Thank you, Mrs. Newcombe. I do appreciate your help.” With a quick glance at his daughter, he left. Engrossed in her game, Sally didn’t put up a fuss.
Maria was happy to see the success of her present. Several minutes later, she looked over at the little girl. Sally was still seated on the floor where she had placed the miniature doll’s table and chairs, and she hadn’t stopped her game. She was flushed, and there was an intense expression on her face that Maria couldn’t quite decipher. She went over to her.
“Oh, dear, has Pansy been hurt?”
Sally nodded but immediately became sullen, not wanting the woman to intrude into her play.
“I have some ointment that will put her to rights,” said Maria, and she bent down to pick up the doll. It was firmly tied to the chair, and she realised that what she had thought was an unskilfully applied bandage was, in fact, a gag that was tight around the doll’s mouth.
“Sally, what in Our Lord’s name are you doing?”
The door opened and Vince ushered in his new customer.
“Maria, Mr. Williams would like to offer his compliments.”
Both men halted as the child suddenly scrambled toward the table, crawling on her hands and knees. Once in the shelter of the table legs, she curled into a ball, her thumb in her mouth, and began to whimper.
“My gracious, what’s wrong with Sally?”
Maria put the toy chair with the bound and gagged doll on the table behind her.
“She’s just being naughty. Don’t take any notice.”
She tried to muster a smile for the newcomer. She dearly hoped he hadn’t seen what Sally was doing.
Chapter Twenty-one
MURDOCH AND NEWCOMBE, who had Flash’s offspring tucked into his coat, trudged down the path towards the bottom of the ravine.
“Smells like it’s going to snow,” remarked Newcombe.
“It does that,” said Murdoch. He was glad for his old sealskin coat. It had some worn patches and gave off a fishy odour in damp weather, but it was good protection against this kind of penetrating damp cold.
Newcombe glanced over at him. “It don’t sit quite right for me not to call you by your proper name. Is there anything else I can use?”
“I’d be honoured if you’d call me Will. It’s the name I was christened with.”
“Done. I’m Vincent. It means a conqueror. Bit fancy for a plain fellow like me, but my ma believed in giving her children names above their station. My older brother was named Lucius, bringer of light.” He spat to the side of the path. “Fat chance of that. Bringer of disaster and darkness more like. The younger one is Archibald. Well, I’d never say he was bold and brave; I’d say the opposite, but at least he hasn’t destroyed everything he touched.”
Newcombe’s voice was cheerful as he related this history, belying his words. As if Murdoch had spoken, he went on. “You may well ask why I’m casting such aspersions on my own kin, but truth is they don’t mean nothing to me anymore. I came across the mighty pond to get away from them all.”
“Indeed,” murmured Mu
rdoch, with some sympathy.
“I might not be a conqueror in the exact sense of the word, but I’ve done all right for myself. Got the tavern going good. Got a respectable name in these parts, and that means a lot to me.”
Murdoch assumed Maria Newcombe had the same views, and that was why she was so discomfited when they had come into the kitchen. He’d glimpsed the doll and had wondered what Sally was playing at, but he couldn’t say he was shocked. When they were children, he and Susanna had acted out many bloodthirsty adventures with the few toys they had. On the other hand, there was something unwholesome about the child. Too much fear.
They had reached the bridge, and Newcombe stopped and peered over the railing into the stream below. “I believe nature can teach us our lessons if only we want to learn them. Look at this creek, for instance. Some men I’ve known are just like this little river. It don’t appear deep, but it is. You wouldn’t think it was dangerous, but it can be.”
Murdoch joined him to look down at the water, which was flowing fast, swirling around the rocks. Bits of twigs and leaves dipped and danced on the surface.
“Are you speaking of any particular man?”
“No, I can’t say I am.”
However, Murdoch had the feeling the innkeeper was indeed referring to one person, but it was hard to know who that was. Maybe he meant Murdoch himself. He also had the sense that his companion was testing him. Throwing out a vague statement like that to see his reaction. I’m testing myself, he thought wryly. It was as if he were standing beside himself observing coolly. Aha, that got to you, did it?
They set off again. The path was deeply rutted with cart tracks.
“Delaney kept some cows. The milk gets driven down to the dairy on Summerhill twice a day. He doesn’t do it himself anymore. His son, sometimes Kate, his daughter, does it.” He paused as if choosing his words. “She’ll be needing a husband. Young Master Craig is courting her. I hope he’s not playing fast and loose, ’cos she is stuck hard on him by all accounts.”
“That so?”
Murdoch knew that if he simply made encouraging noises, Newcombe was going to tell him all the gossip, which he could sift and sieve for nuggets of gold.
“He’s a good-looking young fellow, nice manners like his pa. But for some reason, Delaney took a scunner to him. Wouldn’t let him call for no price. Gave out some cock-and-bull story that Kate was too young, which she isn’t. In my opinion, Delaney was just acting like a cock of the walk and would have come round, but by all accounts, there was more than one big barney up at the house, girl screaming, mother in hysterics.”
“Was the Craig boy upset?”
“Hmm. Don’t know if I can say that. He didn’t show it to me anyways. But the lassie was. Was going into a decline, according to all accounts. That’s over now, of course. The flowers weren’t hardly wilting on the grave when James went back a-courting.”
“How has the family been coping?” asked Murdoch.
“As well as can be expected. They’ve always kept to themselves. Not Delaney. He was a jolly man most of the time, but his wife is a bit of a recluse. Only ever saw her at church, and then not all the time. His older children are both married and away. There’s just young Philip and his sister.”
“What are they like?”
Newcombe didn’t answer right away. “Kate is normal enough in her brain, but …”
Murdoch looked at him questioningly.
“I believe in love, don’t get me wrong,” continued Newcombe, “but the lass has gone to extremes. Comes from being kept too much at home probably. I heard she was sending young James presents every day. Oh, little things, a bunch of flowers, fresh eggs, a cravat; but too much of it.”
Murdoch wondered who was the source of Newcombe’s information, but he didn’t want to shut him down so he didn’t ask.
“But you said James Craig wasn’t scared off. He’s still her sweetheart.”
“That’s what I understand.” He shrugged. “I mean, would you like it if a gal behaved that way around you?”
Murdoch considered the question. Liza had opened up her heart to him, but she hadn’t showered him with gifts, just a special one on his birthday and at Christmastime.
“To be honest, I don’t think I would. It sounds a bit on the desperate side, and I would be nervous about that being true love.”
Newcombe smiled. “My thoughts exactly. I had to woo Maria for a long time before she agreed to have me. I liked that. Made me feel she didn’t come too cheap.”
The puppy whined and Newcombe turned him around into a more comfortable position.
“What about the young lad, Philip Delaney? What’s your opinion of him?”
“He’s a bit of a sad tale, you might say. He had a nasty accident a couple of years ago. He and his pa were bringing the milk cart down to the dairy when the horse spooked. The cart apparently hit a rut, and Phil was thrown out. Must have banged his head. He wasn’t conscious for almost a week, and they thought he’d die. Unfortunately, it left him what you might call strange.”
Newcombe hesitated. Murdoch prompted him. “In what way, strange?”
The other man shrugged. “It’s as if he hasn’t grown up, physically yes but not in his mind. And he has fits. Had one in the tavern not so long ago. Just fell on the ground twitching like a headless chicken. Good thing my wife was there. She knew what to do.” He made gestures to illustrate Maria pulling Philip’s tongue out of his mouth. “They can choke, you see.”
The path was curving upwards around the side of the hill. The wind had blown away the snow except where it was caught in the clefts of the tree branches.
The innkeeper resumed. “Fortunately for Mrs. Delaney there was some insurance money, so she doesn’t have to go begging. They rent out a cottage on the other side of the hill to my man, Lacey, so that’s an income as well.”
“Do the Laceys ever use this path?”
The innkeeper looked at him curiously, and Murdoch grimaced. “You never know what will be relevant till you start.”
“I can’t say I ever enquired, but this is by far the easiest way. The other’s closer, but you’ve got to climb all those darn steps.” Newcombe patted his wide girth. “If it were me, I’d take the long way round any day.”
“I discovered a cosy little hideaway over near the railway bridge on the way to the Lacey cottage. I wondered who’d built it?”
“It was likely Walter made it for Sally.”
To their left, about fifty yards back and almost hidden in a stand of evergreens, appeared a small house. It was plain and unpainted.
“He owned that one, too,” said Newcombe, pointing. “Mrs. Bowling rents it. She works for the Delaneys.”
“A widow?”
“That’s right.”
Newcombe had an attractive lack of guile to him, but once again Murdoch sensed something else. He wondered if the innkeeper himself wasn’t one of those deeper pools he’d been going on about.
They trudged on past a sloping field where three mud-caked cows chewed dispiritedly at a stook of hay. The Delaney house was visible on the crest of the hill and the path again divided, one fork becoming the driveway to the house, the other continuing on, he presumed, to the Lacey cottage. Lamps shone in both the upstairs and downstairs windows, and a thin column of smoke drifted from the chimney.
“We’ll go in the side door,” said Newcombe, and he led the way through a wooden gate down a dirt path that ran alongside the empty vegetable garden. A wreath of intertwined willow wands and bedraggled black crepe was fastened on the door, and Murdoch could see the paint, once dark green, was peeling from the windowsills and eaves. A broken pane of glass in the door panel had been patched with cardboard.
Newcombe knocked and opened the door, which led directly into the large kitchen. The smell almost made Murdoch gag, something thick and sour. An elderly woman was standing in front of the large, black range in the centre of the room, stirring an enormous pot. Murdoch assumed the repulsive odou
r was coming from that.
“Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Bowling,” said Newcombe.
She turned around. “My, didn’t expect to see you today, Vincent.”
Facing them, she didn’t appear at all as old as Murdoch had at first thought. Her hair was iron grey and pulled up tight in a knot on top of her head, and she was quite stooped. However, her face was still smooth enough; and when she smiled at the innkeeper, she revealed good, unspoiled teeth. She had on a stained Holland apron that looked as if it would stand on its own from the amount of grease it had absorbed.
Newcombe pinched his nostrils with his fingers. “I surmise from the pong, you are boiling up the pig food?”
“Bad, is it? I’m so used to it, I don’t notice anymore.” They could hear a dog yapping excitedly, and the puppy inside Newcombe’s coat gave a short, sharp reply and wriggled to get free.
“Hold on, you titch. In a minute.”
Murdoch glanced around. There was nothing homey or welcoming about the kitchen. The flagstones were uneven, and the only piece of furniture was a bare wooden table and a solitary chair. The range occupied most of the space.
“Missus is upstairs in the parlour. Mr. James and Miss Kate are playing duets. Love songs, no doubt.”
She grimaced but whether that was because of the nature of the music or because the bubbling liquid in the pot spat out on her wrist, Murdoch was never to know. The door opened and a woman in the sombre clothes of close mourning entered.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Newcombe.”
A small black-and-tan terrier, similar in appearance to Tripper, came dashing past her, yipping with excitement. He stopped abruptly in front of Newcombe, his head up, his little black muzzle quivering as he tried to locate the source of the new smell.
Newcombe tipped his hat to the woman. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Delaney. I’ve brought up Flash’s whelp like I promised.”
He placed the little dog on the floor. “Don’t you piddle, you rascal, or you’ll get me in trouble.”
All four of them watched the two dogs for a moment as the pup licked at his sire’s muzzle. Flash’s response was quite different from Havoc’s. He seemed to enjoy what the pup was doing. He sniffed in return, his tail waving.
Let Loose the Dogs Page 12