by Kate Gray
of her cousin’s temper.
“Ian has told me of this notion of hidden treasure. To be perfectly truthful, I think it to be fanciful, but even if it had been done, they would have been discovered long ago. You see, there was a fire fifty years or so ago, and much of this house had to be rebuilt.”
With that crushing blow, Charlotte stood, feeling faint and ill. Her gaze suddenly focused on a sword over the mantelpiece of the fireplace for the first time, and she walked toward it, while her vision blurred and went dim.
“Charlotte, no!” Those were the last words she heard.
Constable Wright
It was such a fine day for the end of June, he thought to himself, as he sat contemplating the lunch his wife had packed. Now if only the sun would stay out for a few more days, the mayflies might all finally die off. It had rained for far too long, interminably, it had seemed. At least a month’s time, by his reckoning, and Bill Wright was sure he was not alone in being grateful for the blue skies currently overhead.
Of course, as any sheriff, or as in his case, town constable knew, with fine warm weather came mischief of all sorts. Usually it was the young folks, but he did have one of the ones who was old enough to know better sleeping it off right that moment in a holding cell.
As it was, Bill fully expected a spate of horse cart racing, and midnight complaints (yes, reaching him at that hour) of soused swimmers in any state of undress, splashing about in the big pond. To be expected after a bout of poor weather. He just wished that the village council would hear him out on the notion of organized activities for the younger folks. He’d had little success to date.
He sighed and hefted the lovely ham sandwich his Celia had constructed. Thick slabs of salted pink meat were nestled between freshly baked slices of her pumpernickel bread. She’d even put in a tiny pot of homemade mustard. Anticipation washed over him, and he contentedly lifted the cloth off a china bowl still in the lunch basket. Potato salad, cleverly kept cool by its bowl set inside a larger dish filled with ice chips. Celia did think of every eventuality.
Bill loosened his stiff collar, so that it dangled loosely from the back of his neck, and carefully draped his jacket over a branch of an overspreading elm. This was the prize of the rear courtyard of the constabulary; he leaned back against it as though it was an old friend to be embraced, and spread a yellow gingham napkin over his extended legs.
For the next half hour, he was deaf to the world outside, deliberately so, while he worked through his sandwich, cold salad, finishing with a cherry tart and lemonade. Another sigh escaped his lips, and then he stood reluctantly, shaking out the cloth, rinsing the china under the hand pump, finally placing everything back into the basket. It was difficult leaving this respite from the realities of life, but he closed the lid of the basket and turned to face the building from which he worked.
Meandering back indoors slowly, he savored the peace and calm of the late afternoon’s repast. The only nicer thing would have been to share it with Celia, but she was too busy running the inn and tavern to leave. She did try to make each meal something quite nice, but he was sure he would settle for broth and bread if it meant more time together.
He walked into the rear room where the two jail cells were and rapped sharply on the bars. A lump of blankets and dirty clothing stirred, moving ponderously until sprouting a tousled head.
“Jimmy Bartholomew, you are free to go, long as you’re finally sober.” The disembodied head emitted a noisy belch, prompting Bill to back away a tad. Bleary eyes stared silently out at him for a few moments.
“Come now, Jimmy, I have to clean the blessed place. Don’t be giving me any grief. You go home and get yourself a meal. Yer missus’ll be beating the door down soon anyhow, as she obviously did the morning chores on the farm, she’s probably keen to see you finish out the day’s work.”
Jimmy scowled and worked his way through the tangle of blankets until eventually finding his feet. He stared down at these, which were shod only in wool socks.
“You got my boots, there, Bill?”
“Course I do. They had to dry out, seeing as how you were dancing in muddy puddles last night. Quite the mess they were, too.”
“Don’t recall.” Jimmy tugged on the leather boots, grunting and making a general scene as he readied himself to face his wife. “My thanks to ya’, fer lettin’ me sleep and all. My Betty ain’t come already, though?”
“No, she might be savin’ it up for you.” Bill grinned at Jimmy. “No calls for me out there, Jim, mind. You know how I feel about domestic quarrelin’.” Jim straightened up, eyeing the constable seriously.
“I’d never, Bill, you know that. She’s the one that carries on, anyhow, shakin’ that roly pin at me.” With that, Jimmy stumped out, off to face his time in the dog house. Bill grinned again.
That all taken care of, he progressed back out the rear, and filled the big bucket halfway with water, adding the hot from a kettle on top of the coal stove. He searched his pocket until he found his pen knife, reaching up for a heavy bar of castile soap as he did so.
Thin shavings of the soap fell into the steaming water, as he counted up to ten. He muddled the mop into the bucket, watching as suds rose, and then he wrung the mop with his large hands. Sleeves rolled up, he proceeded to swing the mop around the floor, scrubbing heartily as he moved.
Bill had a fondness for tidiness. It always felt affirming to watch things go from being dirty and dull to shining, and smelling so lovely. It had been his own dear Mam who’d taught him how to clean properly.
That was the only gift she’d been able to impart, aside from her mother tongue. As to that second gift, he looked forward greatly to the day when he’d be able to put it to use, if he could ever talk Celia into traveling abroad.
The floors done, he hauled the bucket back out to the rear, where he sloshed the dirty water into the pea gravel under the pump. He whipped out his handkerchief and wiped his brow down, while looking up to survey the skies overhead. Not a single cloud. Nice pleasant breeze stirring about.
The day was calm. He could hear only the torpid buzzing of recently fatted honeybees while they happily collected a new bounty of pollen. A bell ringing broke through the silence. The school, letting out down across the green. The laughter of children followed, chiming lightly over the distance.
Bill smiled, plucking his jacket off the branch where it still lay, and carefully smoothed his shirtsleeves back down. He made his way around to the main street. It was his habit to go and greet all the children at the end of their day, to make sure each of them was called by name and acknowledged. He’d been doing this for nearly fifteen years, at first to watch over the ones with no fathers or brothers left, and then to see the older ones before they left for the seemingly endless battlefields.
Over the years he’d noticed that the children, with few exceptions, looked for him. They waited for their Constable Wright sighting of the day. He would say hello to all of them, asking what they’d learned that day, and how their families were. Then he’d ask after Miss Ophelia, their teacher. If she was about, he would engage with her to quiz the children further, and tease them a little, if they were of a good humor.
Some of them had their only smile of the day saved for that moment. For others, he might be the only other adult besides their teacher who cared about them. Ophelia Day did her best to nurture every child in her inimitable way, but not every child responded to her methods. The ones she couldn’t get a handle on solely were usually won over by Bill Wright and his steadfast presence. It had been that way for years now, and each appreciated the other in their unspoken partnership.
True to form, the children were lingering around the town green by the time he walked his way up the road. Miss Ophelia was standing off to the side, looking curiously at the tavern. The children, he noticed, were in whispering clumps, clotted up like flotsam around trees and their teacher.
“Good day, Miss Ophelia, I trust all is in its right way?” This was a bit of a usual e
xchange between the two of them, but she failed to respond until he tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She started out of her trance, turning to peer at him through her spectacles.
“Oh! Gracious, I failed to notice your approach, Constable Wright, dear me. It’s just…well, really, that was the most peculiar thing I ever did see!” Bill furrowed his brow, looking around the square for a hint of what she might possibly be talking about. He muttered a bit on seeing the infernal Temperance Mothers. Complainers and pot-stirrers, that lot.
He could fill a bound book with all the complaints they’d lodged in one year’s time. At the moment, thought, they were all clucking and pecking over one of their own. Other than that, nothing amiss. He did notice a tambourine laying in the dust, but that must be theirs.
“Well, do tell, Miss Ophelia. Anything I need to be addressing? Some mischief or another?”
She squinted at him again, bemused.
“I daresay you’ll be compelled to, once they,” she discreetly indicated the gaggle of women nearby, “catch sight of you.”
Bill sighed. He might have known, really, who else would it be?
“Perhaps you could fill me in, briefly, before they do see me and all reason goes to the winds.”
“I shall explain it with as much rapidity as I can muster. It was that odd fellow, Mr. Purce.” She