by Blythe Baker
“Hodgins, I’ve been waiting here for almost an hour!” called an elderly gentleman with a taupe fedora on, scowling from beside a rack of spices and packaged jerky.
“Order number seventeen!” yelled Gary, cupping his hand over his mouth. “Order number seventeen, you’re up next!”
There was a clear protest from some of the customers, and the densely packed group standing shoulder to shoulder all began to move as one toward the counter.
“Now, now, you all are going to have to wait your turn,” Mr. Hodgins said from the counter, waving his large butcher’s blade toward the crowd, his brow furrowing. His bald head glistened in the heat, and I was secretly grateful that I would not be ordering any chicken that day, as the one splayed out beneath him might have caught more than a drop or two of his perspiration. “And just so you all know, we are just about out of the spicy sausage.”
“But that’s my order!” called another customer. “And I’m not up until number twenty-one!”
“Eighteen!” Gary yelled over the people. “Eighteen, you’re up next!”
The group shifted toward the front again, the voices of all the customers trying to talk over one another, echoing off the walls of the small room.
“…and I couldn’t believe it when I saw it, right there, in black and white this morning,” I heard a woman to the left of me say to the woman she was standing with. “Abigail Lowell…dead.”
I froze, clutching my rationing tickets to my chest as the man beside me blew his nose into a handkerchief, a wet and nasty sound.
“I could hardly believe it myself,” said her friend, who wore a pretty pink hat with netting that rested over her face. “I half expected her to sell her house, or have to sell some jewelry, or something of the kind. But to end up dead?”
“Oy, are you two talking about Mrs. Lowell?” It was Mr. Hodgins asking the question, his scowl firmly back in place. “I’ve heard nothing but her name spread around this store today. I’d kindly ask you to not dishonor the deceased with idle chatter the way you are.”
“But didn’t you hear, Mr. Hodgins?” said the woman with the pink hat. She leaned in closer to the counter, her gloved hands resting against the glass of the display case. “Some of us think we might know what happened to poor Mrs. Lowell.”
Mr. Hodgins brought his cleaver down onto the leg of the bird, slicing it clean through. “Oh?” he asked, clearly interested despite himself. He appeared torn for a moment between good intentions and curiosity but, in the end, his curiosity won out. He asked, “And what might that be?”
The woman with the pink hat glanced back over her shoulder at her friend, a strange glint in her eye. They exchanged a knowing smile before she turned back to Mr. Hodgins.
“Well, there is a rumor that has been going around for some weeks now about Mrs. Lowell’s landlady, Mrs. Douglas,” said the woman.
“Mrs. Douglas?” Mr. Hodgins asked as his son called out yet another number – “Nineteen!” – glancing back and forth among the group standing around. The butcher seemed suddenly to remember his earlier resolution. “Listen, I would really appreciate it if you would keep your gossiping to a minimum – ”
“Oh, but this isn’t just gossip,” the woman with the pink hat said. “It seems that Mrs. Lowell was having a difficult time paying her rent. That’s a secret to no one.”
“Everyone knows she fell on hard times after her husband passed away,” Mr. Hodgins said. “But I hadn’t realized things were as bad as all that for her.”
“Yes, it seems that Mrs. Douglas was actually lending her money for the last few months,” the woman said, nodding eagerly.
“I fail to see the problem,” Mr. Hodgins said, retrieving yet another chicken from behind himself, tucked away in an ice box. Thankfully, this one was already missing its head. I never liked chancing upon the shop when he was busy cleaving them off.
“The problem is, Mr. Hodgins, that Mrs. Douglas became furious with Mrs. Lowell, saying that she was taking advantage of her kindness,” the woman said.
“Why on earth would Mrs. Douglas be angry with her?” Mr. Hodgins asked, exchanging his cleaver for a much more sinister looking blade, one that was long and could likely cut through the meat as easily as if it were butter. “If she was the one helping, then she had no right to be angry.”
“Yes, yes, that’s what we all thought, too. Mrs. Douglas doing something kind for someone else? When we’d heard, we thought her icy heart had perhaps thawed finally,” the woman said. “We thought she was softening, looking after Abigail and young Evangeline like she was.”
“But then she got cross,” said the woman’s friend, who wore glasses that were as thick as bottle glass. “So angry, in fact, that the two women had quite the row some weeks ago.”
Mr. Hodgins looked suspiciously back and forth between the two women.
“I’m serious,” said the bespectacled woman. “My granddaughter is very good friends with little Evangeline. Just last weekend, during my granddaughter’s birthday, she was over and I overheard the two girls talking about Mrs. Douglas. It seems that Evangeline witnessed a terrible squabble between her mother and the landlady.”
“You know how kids talk, though,” Mr. Hodgins said, his scowl returning. “They tend to blow things out of proportion.”
“Normally, I would agree with you,” the woman said. “But this poor girl…you should have seen her face. She said that Mrs. Douglas yelled at her mother, saying that she would sue her and take everything she was worth, and that she didn’t care that her husband was dead and gone.” Her face fell, and her gaze became distant. “And then the child told us that her mother just burst into tears, and didn’t stop crying for the rest of the day…”
Mr. Hodgins lobbed his knife into the foul, slicing its wing clean off. He seemed to consider her words for a few moments.
“Number twenty-one!” I heard his son call out, waving his hand in the air on the opposite side of the counter.
“Have you brought any of this to the police?” Mr. Hodgins asked. “Given the information about her death, they might find something like this interesting, maybe even helpful for their investigation.”
“You read the papers; they said they already had it under control,” the woman said with a dismissive wave. “If the police suspect Mrs. Douglas, I’m certain they would have already interrogated her by now and gotten whatever information they need.”
“Number twenty-two!”
“Oh, that’s us, Mr. Hodgins,” said the woman, scuttling off to the side, smiling up at him as if they’d been discussing the weather and not some other poor woman’s demise. “You have a good day, won’t you? Say hello to your Annie for us.”
Mr. Hodgins gave the two women a small wave as they were reabsorbed by the crowd making their way toward Gary.
I stepped up to the counter, and grabbed a number ticket from the turnstile.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lightholder,” Mr. Hodgins said in a rather heavy tone, slicing the breastbone of the chicken with such deftness and skill that I watched in some amazement.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
“Did you overhear all that?” he asked, his gaze shifting downward along the counter to the woman in the pink hat who was picking up her purchases from Gary.
I followed his gaze, hesitating.
“It seems a bit farfetched, thinking it might have been old Mrs. Douglas…” he said. “She’s always been a sour woman, but I have a hard time believing she would go so far as to…” his words died. “Well, I just cannot believe it. Not for one second. Especially when she was trying to help Mrs. Lowell in the first place.”
I wasn’t confident enough to respond to him, worried that any sort of statement might come back to bite me if the police decided to come and talk to Mr. Hodgins.
I picked up my purchases, handed over my rationing tickets, and hurried from the shop, the pressure of all the people inside making me lightheaded.
Mrs. Douglas. I’d heard her na
me around town before, especially from those at the teahouse. One thing was for certain; she did not have the best reputation around. From what I’d heard, she was rather moody, reclusive, and egotistical.
I’d never met her myself, though, and I wondered what Irene might have said about her. She always seemed to have a good head about the people in town, and always seemed to know who everyone was.
So the rumor flying around, so soon after Mrs. Lowell’s death was announced, was that Mrs. Douglas had a bone to pick with the deceased. That certainly didn’t look good.
These were the sorts of whispers that might have easily been missed by the police, especially if they had failed to ask the general public about Mrs. Lowell.
Was that the best place for me to start, then?
As I put away my purchases, I wondered if Irene was right about my involvement in these matters. Was I being utterly foolish by continually inserting myself in these situations?
Perhaps I was. But Mrs. Lowell was a war widow, and as I was one, then I needed to be careful…didn’t I? What if someone in town was targeting single or widowed women who lived alone?
I need to find out, I thought. As soon as I do, I can finally relax.
…Or so I hoped.
4
I didn’t waste any time. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t start investigating this as soon as possible.
Besides, it was better than sitting in my cottage, all alone, dwelling on the nightmares I’d had the night before. So before the sun set, I headed out into town, determined to find some answers to all these new questions I had.
I knew I had to be cautious. There were only a certain few people I could talk to that wouldn’t become suspicious of me. That meant Irene was out, as was Sidney. If either of them knew I was digging into this case, I would never hear the end of it, even if I were to explain to them my fears about the same thing happening to me that had happened to the victim.
I made my way down to the village pub, knowing that some of the gentlemen there might not even remember my being there, depending on how long they had been there that day.
It was just after six when I stepped inside, the smell of cigars and stale ale greeting me as soon as I opened the door. The lights were dim, and the low murmur of voices told me that it was just as full as it was every other night.
I recognized many of the faces as I wandered toward the bar. Men with good jobs, men with families and wives they loved. But even they struggled to face the hard times the war had brought upon this small town. It broke my heart to see that the only way some of them thought they could escape the pain was at the bottom of a tankard.
I stepped up to the bar, smiling at the bar tender who I did not recognize.
“What’ll it be?” he asked in a dreary tone.
“Oh, um…” I said, looking around. “I’ll just have some soda water, thank you.”
He glared at me, realizing that likely meant no tip for him, but turned and made his way down the bar to make the drink.
“Well, I thought I recognized that voice…” said the man sitting on the stool beside me.
It was Mr. Georgianna, husband to Mrs. Francine Georgianna, and owner of the grocery store in town. He was a kindly man, with greying hair that was balding at a small spot on the crown of his head, which he usually hid with a hat.
“Good evening, Mr. Georgianna,” I said, taking the seat beside his.
“I’m rather surprised to see you here, Mrs. Lightholder,” he said. “You didn’t strike me as the type who liked to kick back at the pub.”
“Typically, I’m not,” I said as the bartender brought me my soda water, setting the glass down hard enough to make the soda water slosh inside. “I actually came looking for information about something rather important.”
There was some color in Mr. Georgianna’s cheeks, but I knew that he might still very well remember my presence here, and thought it best to tread carefully.
I leaned closer to him, lowering my voice. “Did you hear about what happened to poor Mrs. Lowell?”
“Oh, I certainly did,” he said in an equally quiet tone, nodding. “Tragic, that. Truly. She was such a young woman, about your age.”
“Yes, it’s been troubling me all day,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself and pretending to suppress a shudder…even though the thought truly was rather disturbing. “I never knew the woman, or anything about her…but as you said, she was so close to my own age, and…”
“Oh, I know, dear, I know,” he said, laying a gentle hand on my arm. “No need to fuss, though. You aren’t in any danger. These sorts of things, they’re terrible, but they happen.”
“I just wish I knew if they caught the one who did it…” I said, rather pathetically. It seemed to be working on him, so I kept it up. “I’m not even certain where the poor woman lived; is it close to my own home? Are you certain I will not be in danger?”
“You live on High Street, yes?” Mr. Georgianna asked. He shook his head. “No, she lived clear on the other side of town, in that house with the blue shutters she was renting from Mrs. Douglas. It’s on Kensington Avenue, I believe.”
That’s precisely the information I needed, I thought.
“Well…all right, then,” I said, perhaps a bit childishly. “But you haven’t heard anything else about it, have you? I’m worried I won’t be able to sleep tonight…”
“Don’t worry, lass,” he said. “The police are investigating. In fact, I saw Mr. Wells this very evening, and I heard the police were knee deep in the case. They’ll find the sorry bloke who did this sooner or later. So rest easy, all right? And if you’re really worried about it, just have that nice Sidney Mason install some locks for you, just as an extra precaution.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Mr. Georgianna,” I said, smiling at him. “Oh, thank you so very much. I feel better now.”
He walked me to the door soon after that and bid me farewell at the street.
I started down the road like I was heading home, but as soon as I was out of sight, I ducked into a narrow alleyway between two homes and started east toward Kensington Avenue.
This was a rather pretty part of town. There were hardly any shops, and the waterwheel that had been standing alongside the river lazily churned away in the dying light of the sun.
A park stood on the corner of Kensington and Ivy Street, one of the main thoroughfares in town. It was rather small, but had a lovely trellis with ivy and blooming flowers climbing up it, along with a stone path leading underneath. A stone fountain that must have been over a hundred years old sat in the very heart of it, bubbling and shimmering in the last golden light of the day.
I started down the street, noticing just how quiet it seemed. It was almost eerie. Mrs. Lowell hadn’t been the only one to live on this street, had she?
It was lined with cottages just like my own, though smaller in scale.
As I walked, I noted the different color shutters on the walls of the homes, ranging everywhere from white, to green, to red.
The smallest house at the end of the street had faded blue shutters that looked desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint.
The front garden was overgrown and rather wild, with weeds striking up through the bricks of the pathway, and piles of old, rotting leaves tucked in the flower beds beneath the windows.
The front door, painted red, was chipped and splintered, certainly in need of a good sanding.
I frowned as I noticed a crack in one of the windows, with billowy, white lace curtains hanging inside, yellowed slightly from the sunlight.
But it was the yellow Caution tape stretched across the front gate that made a chill run down my spine.
It was a poor excuse for a house, and in my anger, I wondered how Mrs. Lowell had been able to stand living there as long as she had. Why in the world had Mrs. Douglas let the house fall into such disrepair? Didn’t she realize there was a child living there?
I continued down the street, hoping that peopl
e living in the other nearby homes might look out and see me as nothing more than a curious passerby.
My mind began to race as I started to form possible scenarios in my mind about what had happened a few nights before. Mrs. Douglas seemed like she could be a perfectly reasonable candidate for the murderer, just given her relationship with the victim. She knew the house and likely had a spare key to get in. They’d had a fight recently, and when money was the root of the issue, things never ended well…
I rounded on my heel at the end of the road, and started back down the street, hoping to get a glimpse of the house one more time.
As I drew closer, though, I noticed I wasn’t the only one looking at the house. A rather large, broad shouldered man was standing across the street, scrawling something down in a notebook in his hand.
My heart skipped, and my face flooded with color. There was nowhere for me to hide. He was going to see me, know that it was me –
Stay calm…I thought. He seems busy enough, taking notes down about the property. If I slip in through an alleyway here, walk down to the park and back onto Ivy Street, he’ll never see –
“Helen Lightholder? Is that you?”
His voice called out to me just as I was about to scurry between two other golden-stoned houses.
I winced, my breath catching in my throat.
Footsteps behind me confirmed what I’d feared.
As I turned, I found myself staring up into the face of Sam Graves, police inspector for Brookminster.
He was as handsome as he was tall, with broad shoulders and chest that matched his wide jaw and strong cheekbones. His dark hair flecked with grey was cut shorter than I’d seen him wear it before, but his gaze was still the same piercing blue that it always was.
“I thought that was you,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.
I sighed heavily. “Yes, it’s me,” I said. “And I know what you’re about to say, so please just – ”
“Oh?” he interrupted. “And what do you think I’m going to say?”
