15
Samuel didn’t walk straight home from school that afternoon. He spent more time than he needed packing his school bag and then sat down, tying and untying his shoelaces while the schoolyard emptied. If he stayed back an extra ten minutes or so, Joseph would get sick of waiting and would go on up the hill without him.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Joseph; he was his best and only friend, after all. It was just that, without quite having the words to pin it down, Samuel knew he was carrying something terribly fragile and he feared that walking home with Joseph might break it. He wouldn’t mean to do it or even know that he was doing it, but he would, because that was Joseph.
He waited as long as he could before passing out of the school gates, and when he did, Samuel collided with Mrs. Phillips and her basket full of groceries. Mrs. Phillips knew everyone in the village and she was one of the few people Samuel’s mother would cross the street to avoid.
“You nearly knocked me over,” she said, checking her bag to make sure her eggs hadn’t broken (one had, which was nothing short of catastrophic). Then she looked him up and down. “I suppose your mother’s not come back yet?”
“Not yet, Mrs. Phillips.”
“What could possess her to sail halfway around the world on a whim?”
“Mother is meeting with—”
“She’s had her troubles, we all know that.” Mrs. Phillips said this more to herself than anyone else. “But what good is there in chasing rainbows? I told her that. Give up that wretched steel mill, that’s what I said—it’s beyond you. And do you know what your mother told me?”
Samuel didn’t know.
“She said, ‘How can I ever be happy stuck out here with barely two pounds to rub together? I’ll go mad,’ that’s what she said. ‘You’ll find a way,’ I told her. She said she had a plan to turn things around. A week later, I heard she went sailing to America without so much as a goodbye.”
Samuel had never really liked Mrs. Phillips and he liked her even less now. She used a great many words and he wasn’t sure any of them were good. “Mother will be home soon. Ruth says she’s probably on the boat right now.”
This caused Mrs. Phillips to smile rather coolly. “She would know, I suppose.”
Luckily, Mrs. Phillips saw someone at the crossing she wanted to chastise even more than Samuel and he was able to escape. But though he was soon a safe distance from Mrs. Phillips, her words had their hooks into him and for some reason it made him think of his mother’s letter. The one he had hidden in the atlas. Why hadn’t he taken it out and finished reading it? Didn’t he go to a great deal of trouble and risk to steal it? In that moment, Samuel realized something he’d never known before—that it was possible to want to do something and not want to do it at the very same time.
“What’s kept you?”
Samuel looked over and saw Joseph sitting in the shade of an elm tree. He shrugged. “I had things to do.”
“What things?” Joseph got to his feet and picked up his bag.
“Just things.”
Joseph fell in beside Samuel. “Mind if we don’t run today? I’m dead tired. My dad was up to mischief last night.”
“What sort of mischief?” Samuel asked.
“Drink mostly.” Joseph nudged Samuel in the ribs. “You still spooked about old Ruth?”
“She’s not old and I wasn’t spooked.”
“I don’t blame you, not a bit. If my dad vanished into thin air and my mum said he’d gone off on a boat, I’d wonder if she’d done him in. Wouldn’t blame her, neither.”
Samuel couldn’t let Joseph’s words just hang there and mean what they meant, so he said the very things he didn’t want to say. About Ruth catching him at the basement door and how he had accused her of being a murderer. Finally, he said, “Ruth showed me the basement this morning and there wasn’t anything there.”
He felt he had made perfect sense and that the matter was resolved. But then Joseph was looking at him with something like astonishment. “I can’t believe she didn’t kill you. But I suppose she couldn’t do it right then and there. Where would she say you went?”
“Ruth didn’t kill anyone, I just told you that.” Samuel shook his head. “And I wouldn’t have been snooping in that stinky cellar if it wasn’t for you.”
“I told you it was just a story, didn’t I?”
“Ruth didn’t kill anyone,” Samuel said again.
“Never said she did. Thing is...” Joseph was the sort of boy who flew easily and willingly into intrigues, so it was impossible for him not to see the bloody potential in Samuel’s story. “Thing is, Ruth didn’t show you the cellar last night, did she?”
“It was very late,” said Samuel.
They were at the steepest part of the hill now and both of them slowed, their breaths dissolving into faint puffs. “Even so, wouldn’t it make sense to go down right then and there and get it over with? Isn’t that what someone with nothing to hide would do?”
“Well...”
“Don’t you see, Samuel, you gave old Ruth all night to clean out the cellar and get rid of your mum’s—” Joseph stopped himself because there were some things even he couldn’t say. “What I mean is, if there was anything down there she didn’t want you to see, she could have gotten rid of it before sunrise.”
Samuel was thinking of the cellar, swept clean, the boxes and crates neatly arranged. He didn’t say any of this to Joseph.
“Of course, she would have needed help,” said Joseph. “Getting rid of the evidence wouldn’t be easy. Ruth’s a solid sort but still, there’s the stairs to think about and—”
“Shut up!” Samuel shouted this. “You talk a lot of rot, Joseph, that’s what. My mother’s in America and she’s coming home any day now.”
Despite the slope of the hill and the tightness in his legs, Samuel forced himself to walk faster, and in that way, Joseph quickly fell behind. Which was very satisfying.
“I was just saying, that’s all!” Joseph sounded well out of breath. “You don’t have to get so mad about it. I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t warn you when I smelled trouble.”
The boy didn’t look back. “There’s no trouble.”
“I hope you’re right, that’s for certain.”
At the top of the hill, Samuel stopped and leaned against the gate to his house. He waited for Joseph, even though he was angry and had every right to be, because that’s what friends do. They wait, even when they’re mad. “See you tomorrow,” mumbled Samuel.
“Meet you here at eight?” said Joseph, wiping the sweat from his neck.
Samuel nodded. He turned and began walking up the drive.
“Be careful, Samuel.”
Samuel stopped, looking back. He thought he knew the answer but he asked it, anyway. “Careful of what?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Joseph had a faraway look that hinted at things unspoken. “Grown-ups can do rotten things sometimes.” He shrugged. “Even the good ones, I reckon.”
16
Ruth couldn’t stomach lateness. It was one of the things guaranteed to get her hopping mad. She prided herself on being just where she said she was going to be at the very minute she promised. Turning up on time mattered and being late was as good as spitting in her eye. So when Samuel came up the drive, walking so slow you would think he had all the time in the world, when he was actually twenty minutes late, and she’d been worried half to death, it wasn’t a great surprise that she would come marching out of the house with a grim look on her face. She’d been watching from the window, waiting on the boy so she could do just that.
“What time do you make it, Samuel Clay?” She was stalking across the lawn.
“I don’t know,” said Samuel, though he had a perfectly good watch on his wrist.
“It’s ten past four. I’ve been worried sick, thin
king you’d been run down or worse.” She was looking the boy over, though Samuel couldn’t think what she expected to find. “What’s kept you? What were you doing all this time? I bet Joseph Collins had you up to no good.”
The boy couldn’t tell her that he had lingered in the schoolyard because then Ruth would ask why and no good could come of that. Luckily, he had another card to play. “Mrs. Phillips stopped me to talk.”
This caused Ruth to roll her dark eyes. “That woman has no shame. I suppose she was full of questions about your mother?”
Samuel nodded.
“Well? What did she want to know?”
“When Mother was coming home.”
Ruth sniffed. “And what business is it of hers?”
“Did you hear from Mother, Ruth? Did she write again?”
“There was nothing in the morning post.” Ruth’s scowl softened a little. “But I’m sure it won’t be long now.”
“Perhaps I should go to the post office and see if she has sent a telegram before she boarded the boat?”
“The boat? Samuel...” Ruth huffed. “If there was a telegram it would be delivered to the house. You know that very well as I’ve told you at least a dozen times this week alone.”
“You promised I would hear from Mother soon. You said—”
“Don’t start, Samuel. I’m in no mood.” She glanced around and caught sight of William coming out of the woodshed with an ax. “Just be patient, your mother will... What on earth is that man doing?”
Ruth took off toward the woodshed, her arms swinging the way they always did when she was on a mission. Samuel set his bag down and wandered after her.
“I hope you’re not planning on wasting all afternoon chopping wood.” Ruth was in the middle of saying this when Samuel reached her. “I wanted the lawn clipped today. If it gets much wilder, people will think the house has been abandoned.”
“Hello there, Samuel.” William pretended as if Ruth hadn’t said a word.
William had been the gardener for as long as Samuel could remember. He was tall with bronzed hair that frequently looked in need of combing and a substantial beard. William was fond of squinting and he always seemed to be on the very edge of laughter. Samuel’s father once said William could have made something of his life if he wasn’t juggling quite so many vices.
“Hello, William,” said the boy.
“Mr. Sloan, will you do as I asked?” Ruth’s tone was crisp.
William smiled at her. “We can discuss it, once I’ve had a word with the boy.”
Ruth and William didn’t like one another. Last summer, Samuel had seen them in the stables having words. Ruth was angry, standing close to William—talking in a whisper, Samuel figured, which she always did when she was really cross. But William didn’t seem scared at all. In fact, his hands were on her like she had taken something of his and he meant to get it back. Samuel had run and told his mother what he had seen, that Ruth might need help, but his mother had giggled and said Ruth was just fine and he had no business spying on people.
“How’s life treating you, Samuel?” said William.
He always asked this question and Samuel usually shrugged, never sure how to answer it.
“I caught that rabbit of yours making a meal of my lavender this morning.” William’s grin suggested he wasn’t especially bothered. “I had to turn the hose on him.”
This made Samuel giggle.
Ruth huffed. “I lost a row of sprouts to that creature and it’s not as if we have food to spare.”
“Any more of them postcards from your ma?” William asked the boy.
Samuel nodded. “One came on Monday.”
“How’s she keeping over there in America?”
“She hates it. She wants to come home.”
“I don’t doubt it.” For once, William didn’t look amused.
“She’ll be home soon,” said Samuel. “Ruth says—”
“Mr. Sloan,” said Ruth, her hands locked together, “I thought I made myself very clear about the lawn. Was I not clear?”
“My name’s William.” He swung the ax up onto his shoulder and looked at Ruth, a smile curling up under his mustache. “I seem to recall it’s passed your lips once or twice.”
Samuel saw the irritation splash over Ruth’s face, her eyes narrowed, her cheeks flushed. “Mr. Sloan, are you not capable of trimming the lawn? Because if you’re not, then I will.”
“I doubt very much you’ll find another gardener,” William said. “They tend to like being paid and we both know I’m owed two weeks as of yesterday.”
This seemed to take the wind out of Ruth’s mighty sails. “As you know, Mr. Sloan, things have been rather difficult lately.”
“I know it,” said William, “and I’ve been patient, haven’t I?”
Samuel watched the ax head turning back and forth as William twisted the handle.
“You have.” Ruth cleared her throat. “I’ve let Olive go but it’s all I can do to look after the boy and cook the meals and keep the house clean and tidy, without having to tend the garden, as well.” She took a long breath. “That is why I need your assistance.”
“Fair enough,” said William. “But a man has to eat, Ruth, even a good-for-nothing like me. I can’t be coming here, laboring from dawn ’til dusk, without payment.”
Ruth glanced briefly at Samuel, then back at William. “I am working on it, Mr. Sloan.”
“I’ve heard that before.” William was smiling again. “But if anyone can find a way, I reckon you can, Miss Tupper.”
Ruth cleared her throat again and Samuel saw how uncomfortable she looked. He had an odd feeling then, one he couldn’t put a name to. A sense that there was something passing between Ruth and William that wasn’t about trimming lawns and paying wages, but something else. Something more.
“Will you get to work on the lawn like I asked?” said Ruth.
William nodded. “There’s a dead branch on the elm by the gate and I reckon it’ll fall if I don’t see to it. I’ll make a start on the lawn as soon as I’m done.”
“Good.” Ruth unclasped her hands. “Come along, Samuel, you have homework to do.”
* * *
As Samuel wrote out his spelling words, his attention was elsewhere. He hadn’t even touched the glass of milk or the shortbread in front of him. He was thinking about William and Ruth, wondering about what went unsaid between them, and those thoughts were like a net scooping up other ones and soon his mind was spinning darkly. Joseph was to blame. He’d said something as they walked up the hill. Something Samuel had thought was stupid but now had fixed itself to Ruth and William.
She would have needed help. Joseph was talking about Ruth killing his mother and moving her body while Samuel was sleeping. Ruth would have needed help getting the body up the stairs. That was Joseph’s theory. Samuel hadn’t thought about that before. He’d just assumed Ruth was strong enough to do all the beastly work herself. She could lug sacks of flour from the car easily enough and carry in huge bundles of logs from the woodshed. When Joseph said what he did, Samuel had dismissed it as fanciful. Ruth hadn’t done anything to his mother, and besides, who in the world would help her do such a horrid thing?
Then Samuel had watched Ruth and William giving each other strange looks, and Ruth blushing, William smiling at her and twisting the ax, and it all made horrible sense. Ruth had killed his mother and William had helped her hide the evidence. But where?
“It’s not like you to leave a shortbread uneaten.” Ruth was wiping down the kitchen table.
“I’m not very hungry,” said Samuel.
“That’s a first.”
Samuel didn’t want to believe it. Hadn’t he stayed back from school just so Joseph wouldn’t put doubts in his mind? If it felt odd for Samuel to have his mind changed so easily, his mother both alive and then de
ad from one breath to the next, he didn’t question it. He had a great many thoughts and, in the course of any one hour, might feel ten different ways about the very same thing.
“I’ve finished my homework.” Samuel closed his book. “Can I go outside and ride my bike?”
Ruth stopped cleaning the table and looked at him. “You’ve got no appetite for shortbread, but you’ve energy enough to ride your bike?”
Samuel picked a shortbread up and took a bite. “Can I go?”
“Suit yourself.” Ruth rinsed the cloth out under the tap. “But make sure you change out of that school uniform first and don’t throw your trousers on the floor. I want them folded and put away.”
“Yes, Ruth.”
* * *
The bike was leaning against the oak tree and Samuel walked right past it. He was looking for a body. He had already checked the stables but all he found were some engine parts, his father’s car (which Ruth used to run messages in Penzance) and a wall of old cupboards filled with tools and jars of screws and nails.
That only left the woodshed and wasn’t that the most likely place of all? No one went in there except for William and Ruth. The windows were painted over and it had a lock on the door. If Ruth needed to urgently move a body from the cellar, the woodshed was the perfect place to hide her wicked crime. So that was where Samuel was headed.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
William was across the yard, cutting the lawn just like Ruth had asked. He had worked up a sweat and was wiping his face with a dirty handkerchief.
The Boy at the Keyhole Page 8