by Charles Todd
“I don’t know,” Roddy replied. “I didn’t see him at first. Not until my hook caught in his coat, and—and I pulled. I didn’t know it—I had no idea what it was. Until he rolled over.”
“It must have been a dreadful shock,” Rutledge agreed. “That particular place in the river. Downstream from the Aqueduct, do you think?”
“About half a mile,” the boy said, nodding. “It wasn’t overhead. But I could hear sounds from up there.”
“Anything or anyone in the vicinity of where you were fishing, along the river just there?”
“I don’t think so.” He glanced uneasily at his grandmother. “I wasn’t—I shouldn’t have been out there, fishing. But I found the pole, you see, and I wanted to try it. I thought it best to stay out of sight.”
There had been a search of both banks, upstream and downstream, but nothing had been found, and now there was no indication that others had come searching for the dead body before Roddy’s discovery.
Rutledge nodded. “I’d have done the same. Good fishing in the Dee, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t tried before.”
“Why did you choose that particular spot?”
“It was flatter just there, I could get to the water more easily.”
“And no one had been there before you? No footprints or other signs of anyone about?”
“No. I wasn’t really looking—but I’d have—I’d have moved on if I’d seen other people.” He lifted a shoulder, not looking at his grandmother. “I should have been helping. It was a Saturday.”
Somewhere in the house a door slammed, making the boy jump and glance anxiously at his grandmother. Before she could say anything, they heard brisk footsteps, and the door to the parlor swung open. A younger woman stepped in. Mrs. MacNabb introduced her daughter-in-law without any inflection in her voice or change in her expression, but her gray eyes were as hard as flint.
Even dressed as a farmer’s widow, it was clear what sort of woman Roddy’s stepmother had been. It was there in her face and the way she moved forward, her gaze on Rutledge, prepared to be the center of attention.
Roddy had moved back toward his grandmother, eyes down, looking at no one and nothing.
But before she could ask to be introduced, Rutledge rose, smiled pleasantly, and said, “Mrs. MacNabb, I believe? We were just leaving. A few questions for Roddy, in the course of my inquiries. He’s a good lad. You must be quite proud of him.”
Holcomb was on his feet as well, following Rutledge toward the door.
Rutledge let him pass, looked at the elder Mrs. MacNabb, and said, “Thank you. We won’t trouble you again.” And to Roddy, he added, “You were a brave lad.”
The boy mumbled something. The grandmother followed them to the door, and shut it after them.
Rutledge strode to the motorcar. Holcomb was already turning the crank.
“I wasn’t going to give her a chance to interfere,” he said grimly.
“If I’d found a body out here, along the river or the road, I’d not have been surprised to see it was her. I don’t know how the grandmother puts up with her. Did you learn anything from the boy?”
“Only that no one was still searching the river for the body. We can’t be sure of that, of course, they could have come and gone long before Roddy went fishing.”
“Falling from that height, there wouldn’t be any question the man was dead.”
“I don’t think a murderer would have cared either way,” Rutledge replied. “But if no one else came looking for him, it could mean he had no friends up there wondering where he’d got to. Therefore he was very likely a stranger.”
But before driving back into town, Rutledge asked Holcomb to show him where the body had been drifting when Roddy MacNabb’s hook brought it to light.
The sun was just struggling to break through when they reached the spot.
The ground was trampled and muddy still where the men had worked to bring the corpse in and others had come to stare. The little clearing was no longer a tempting place to stop and try for a fish. Holcomb looked around it and shook his head. “It was bad luck the dead man got caught on something here. For a killer, that is. If it’d stayed midstream, now, it might have floated well away.”
“That was very likely what a killer hoped for.” As Rutledge turned to go, he looked up at the graceful dark red brick aqueduct, towering far above his head, the very top section gray cast iron. He realized that the top of the structure must be where the waterway and the horse path were carried across. Eighteen slender pillars rose from the valley floor in arches that ran from right to left, bridging the gap from side to side. A span of near 1,000 feet, if he was any judge, and a good 120 feet high. Yet the waterway itself was invisible from here. In fact, at first glance one could almost believe the Romans had built it.
“Elegant piece of work, isn’t it?”
“That it is.” Holcomb shaded his eyes as a shout echoed from above, and another voice answered it.
“What if our man’s killer waited to make his move until he was certain his victim would go into the river? Where the body had a good chance of being carried away downstream, possibly never found?” Rutledge asked thoughtfully. “If he did, it speaks of premeditation, not an argument that got out of hand. It’s a place to start.”
“A different world up there,” the Constable agreed darkly. “Not one I know.”
3
Early the next morning, Rutledge left the village and made his way along back roads toward the top of the Aqueduct. The rain had gone, as Constable Holcomb had foretold, leaving a bright day with a bit of a breeze.
When he reached the head of the northern cliff, he felt an even greater appreciation for the stunning piece of engineering that Telford had created in 1805. It was still an amazing construction. His godfather, the architect, had always claimed that Thomas Telford was a man before his time, and Rutledge had no difficulty in believing that here.
A community of sorts had grown up where the engineers and workmen had put up their temporary lodgings in the 1800s, but now the waterway belonged to the narrowboat men. Leaving his motorcar under some trees where the main canal coming down from the north broadened into a basin, Rutledge walked past a scattering of cottages, and then where the basin narrowed again, he found shops that catered to them as well as to craft passing through.
There was an odd sense of isolation here. He’d come through Trefor, just to the north, where there was some industry, and even a railway station, although it had been closed until the next train was due. Here it felt as if life were suspended until the next narrowboats passed along the canal and over the Aqueduct. It was almost unnaturally quiet, no children running about, no wives gossiping along the path, no dogs barking as he went by. Holcomb had been right. It was a different world.
Rutledge walked into one of the smaller shops, and was surprised to find it too all but empty.
Nodding to the man behind the display of goods, restocking a handful of tins, he asked for a cup of tea.
“Any table you like,” the man replied, and Rutledge chose one by the front window, looking out on the waterway as it narrowed toward the crossing. Then he turned for a better view of the way he’d come in.
As he’d left his motorcar he’d noticed the single narrowboat, long, high in the water, and barely six feet wide, tied up in the basin. It was a sleek black with polished brass fittings. In the sunlight dappling the dark water, it had looked freshly painted. He could observe it now. He hadn’t wanted to appear unduly interested in it or attract attention to himself until he’d got a better feeling for this place.
The man came over with his tea and set the cup down. Noticing the direction of Rutledge’s gaze, he said, “My cousin’s boat.”
“Indeed? Does he live on it?” he asked casually.
“No, his cottage is just over there.” He gestured to a stand of trees on the far side of the basin. But his tone of voice indicated an affront, as if Rutledge had insu
lted his cousin.
“I don’t know much about narrowboats,” Rutledge said affably, as if he hadn’t noticed. “I thought families usually lived on board.”
“Those that do are no better than gypsies,” the man retorted.
“Are they? I hadn’t known.” He poured milk into his cup, then added, “How long are the boats?”
“Seventy-two feet, most of them. If they’re to navigate some of the canals and many of the locks, they can’t be any longer. Even so, they must fit sideways into some of the older locks.”
Rutledge turned toward the Aqueduct. “It’s damned narrow, out there,” he said. “Are all the aqueducts like that?”
“I expect they are. One boat at a time, going or coming. And just enough room beside the boat for the horse pulling the rope and the man walking him.”
“What do they carry, most of the time?”
“Whatever’s called for. Aggregate. Slate. Goods. Quarry stone. Brick. Even people, sometimes. During the war, now, there were nearly five hundred boats using this canal. Did my dad’s heart good to see them, he said. He was a narrowboat man. I never was. My mother’s father kept the shop, and I took over from him.”
“Do many visitors come to watch the boats cross over?”
“Sometimes in the summer, there will be a dozen or so about. Wanting a float across, some of them. As if these were pleasure boats.”
“This time of year?”
“You’re the first this week.” He studied Rutledge. “What brings you here?”
“I was expecting to meet a friend.”
There was a wariness now in the man’s manner. “Not this side of the crossing. I’ve heard of no strangers about.”
But Rutledge hadn’t told him whether the friend was local or an outsider.
“You might remember him if you had seen him. Short, just over five feet tall. Good shoulders. Light brown hair, a strong nose.” It was the best description he could offer.
The shopkeeper shook his head. “He never came in here.” There was a firmness now in the denial. Cutting off further questions.
Was that really so? Or only a part of the truth? If the victim hadn’t come in—had he been somewhere outside? On one of the boats that had come through?
Reserving judgment, Rutledge said, “Are you sure of that? I was held up in Shrewsbury for several days. I’d not like to think I’d missed him.” He stirred his tea, staring out now at the black narrowboat. The problem was, he himself was in the dark about the victim’s movements. Shrugging slightly, he added, “Is there an inn, this side of the Aqueduct? Somewhere he might have stayed? Or left a message?”
The shopkeeper was frowning now. “Never been a call for one. The men coming through on the narrowboats sleep aboard.”
“What about the far side?”
“The far side?” The shopkeeper stared at him, as if he’d asked about the far side of the moon.
“I don’t relish the long drive around. How do I cross the Aqueduct to the southern end?”
“By the towpath.”
“Any chance of taking one of the narrowboats across? I don’t fancy walking. Heights trouble me.”
“You’ll have to speak to one of the owners. They don’t as a rule care for passengers. Not when there’s goods aboard. Sometimes if they’re empty.” He glanced at Rutledge’s cup. “Finished, are you?”
Rutledge rose and followed him to the counter, where he paid for the tea. But at the door he paused. “I’m curious. Why do you say the narrowboats with families living aboard are no better than gypsies? Are they a thieving lot? Should I be wary of them?”
“They’re ignorant. Illiterate. No schooling for themselves, nor for the little ones. Families crowded into cabins hardly big enough for the man at the tiller. Sleeping there, cooking there. Born there as often as not, and dying there too. Poor and dirty—you can smell the boats as they pass.”
Rutledge thought he was exaggerating. “But not thieving, no police records, surely.”
The man replied sourly, “Who knows? They’ve no roots, they come and go as they please, traveling up and down the canals year after year.”
“Do many come through here?”
“More since the railroads came. Hard times, then. Some couldn’t pay for a boat and a house on shore. But that’s less space for cargo, isn’t it, and without a full load, they earn less. Gypsies.”
The railroads had come through decades ago. But old prejudices died hard. With a nod, Rutledge stepped out into the sunshine and walked on to where the black boat was moored.
It was handsome, if a little funereal. There was a painted rose by the well of the tiller, and lacy curtains at all the windows. Two had flower pots in them as well. It was hard to say whether this particular boat carried goods or passengers, but it appeared to ride high in the water, a sign that it was empty now. He walked the length, looking at the well in the bow. The man at the tiller would have to stand to see down the length of the craft and over the slightly raised prow.
The tow rope lay coiled neatly on the boards. It appeared to be dry, as if it hadn’t been used in several days. He turned, wondering where the horse was stabled when not in service, and saw one or two outbuildings beyond the cottages.
Ducks came running as he moved on around the basin, then lost interest as he ignored them and looked around at the cottages scattered about. For the most part they were modest and kept trim. He wondered where the children here went to school. In his brief survey, he hadn’t noticed a building large enough to be a school.
He turned and retraced his steps toward the Aqueduct. Closer to it, he realized that the trough of water and the towpath beside it could be no more than twelve feet wide. While the water, shimmering now in the sunlight, seemed suspended in air, the towpath on the eastern side appeared to be dangerously narrow. The closer he got to the edge, the longer the Aqueduct seemed to stretch before him. And then he was looking down at the green Llangollen Valley, fields and trees and the line of the river over a hundred feet below. In the distance upriver he could just pick out the roofs of Roddy’s village.
“’Ware.” Hamish’s keen hearing had picked up the approach of someone behind him, and Rutledge stepped away from the drop, turning to see who had followed him. He’d half expected it to be the shopkeeper, but it was a younger man, in his late thirties. He walked with a limp, but stopped at once as Rutledge turned. And stood there not six paces away.
“Careful,” he said in the rhythmic accent of the Welsh. “You’d not wish to fall all that way.”
“No.”
“First time here?” the man asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Impressive sight.”
Rutledge asked, “Live here, do you?”
“On the far side. Yes.”
“I thought you might be the owner of that handsome black narrowboat.”
The man grinned cheekily. “Me? Not likely.” And without another word, he set out across the towpath, walking jauntily, as if the height didn’t worry him. Rutledge watched him cross and then disappear on the southern end.
Making certain there was no one else coming up behind him—and no one about to cross from the other side—Rutledge himself stepped out onto the towpath. It was barely more than five and a half feet wide, with little or no protection against falling, he thought, keeping his gaze on the far end and walking steadily. Soon he was a quarter of the way across, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at the fields and trees and the dark line of the river below.
But that was dizzying, not the best of ideas, and he quickly brought his gaze back from the sheer drop and fixed it on his goal. The tow horses, he thought, must wear blinders to keep them firmly on the path. Or did they, like he himself, still sense that drop so close to them?
He cast another quick look down, regretting it almost at once.
How easy it would be to turn quickly and shove someone off the path!
Had the man screamed as he fell? Or had it been too sudden
, the shock keeping him from crying out until it was almost too late?
The wonder was, he hadn’t taken his killer with him . . .
Rutledge’s mouth was dry as he reached the far end, and Hamish was hammering at him in the back of his mind. Trying to ignore the deep Scots voice, he continued into the village. It was more or less a mirror of the one he’d left. There was the line of the narrow waterway that carried on a short distance over solid ground before widening into a basin, and beyond the basin, the southern canal disappeared among a stand of trees. If there was an inn, he couldn’t see it. And then the sound of hooves caught his attention. Looking up, toward the basin, he realized there were several narrowboats approaching from the south, just coming into view. They were in line, and he counted four of them, the horses plodding steadily, heads down, in his direction. The horses pricked up their ears as the basin came into view, and he thought they must know the routine, a brief stop before the crossing. One of the men leading them called out, and a woman appeared at the door of a cottage on the far side of it.
He began to walk toward the boats. There was an older man with a thin gray beard squatting close by the towpath, a long hemp rope spread out by him. He appeared to be inspecting it inch by inch.
When he was near enough to the man, Rutledge called pleasantly, as if he were only a chance visitor, “Hallo. Remarkable place, this. Live here, do you?”
“Aye.” The response was cautious. And he didn’t look up after the first swift glance Rutledge’s way, his attention on the rope.
“I couldn’t help but wonder. What’s it like here in a storm? Or in winter? Surely the horses can’t make that crossing if it’s icy? Or cold enough for the water to start to freeze?”
The man stared up at him now. “Some days it’s shut down. Aye.”
“I just walked across myself. I don’t fancy walking back,” he said with a rueful smile. “Too damned narrow for my taste. Even in such good weather. Do you suppose one of those boats will let me step on board?”
The man said, curiosity and something else in his gaze, “English, are you?”