“But it was here.” I looked at the Utleys. Mr. Utley’s coat pocket bulged. They’d probably arrived first and would recognize an expensive blend of tea when they saw it. But if they drank this tea, they might die. I had to warn them, but I knew it would sound mad. I licked my dry lips. “I think … I think Mr. Oliver’s tea was poisoned. I think that’s why he died.”
Sheriff Crane glanced at the body, dubious. “He wasn’t a young man. Probably a heart attack.”
“That was his final word before he died—poison. And Birdy said he collapsed while drinking his tea. And now the tea tin is missing.”
Sheriff Crane forced a polite smile. “Sounds like you’ve been reading too many novels, Valentine. I can’t imagine why someone would want to harm the rector. Can you, Mr. Utley? Mrs. Utley?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Utley scoffed.
“Poison!” I insisted. “That’s what he said—his dying word. He took great pains to tell me.”
Mrs. Utley’s eyes widened. “You said that half-wit was here. If someone served him bad tea, it was her—some poisonous plant she picked up in the woods.”
I straightened, alarmed. “Not Birdy. She wouldn’t.”
“Perhaps by accident,” Sheriff Crane mused.
“Or … on purpose,” Mrs. Utley said with meaning, her eyebrows lifting.
“She would never!” I cried. “She adored Mr. Oliver!”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Utley stated, quick to latch onto the more interesting story. “She was besotted. Everyone knows it. But he didn’t feel the same way.”
“Birdy would never hurt Mr. Oliver! She wouldn’t hurt anyone!”
Sheriff Crane glanced at the table. “If the tea tin is missing, Birdy probably took it.”
My heart sank, because I knew he was right—one of the pretty things she could never resist. I had to warn her not to drink it. And suddenly, it made me sick that we were standing over Mr. Oliver’s body, arguing.
“I have to go,” I said, backing up.
“Yes, this has been a shock for you,” Sheriff Crane said. “I’ll talk to Birdy and get to the bottom of it.”
Which would only make matters worse. Birdy would apologize for hurting Mr. Oliver, which would sound like a confession. The poisoned tea would be found in her shack. And Mrs. Utley’s malicious story would spread.
I left the rectory and made my way around the crowd in the road. I hurried across the graveyard and entered the woods, then broke into a run.
My thoughts turned as I ran along the trail, weaving around gnarled trunks, ducking under clawlike branches. If Birdy had the blue tea tin, I would take it and hide it, I decided, at least until I’d talked to Father and figured out what had happened. And I would convince Birdy to stop apologizing for hurting Mr. Oliver. I would make her understand.
But my heart thundered with dread, because Birdy never understood.
I turned down a narrow side path and a moment later came to a clearing with several makeshift racks for drying animal skins in front of a battered shack. I banged on the door. “Birdy? It’s Valentine.” I lifted the latch. “I’m coming inside.”
The door wouldn’t open fully, blocked by clutter. I gingerly stepped into the gloom, resisting the urge to cover my nose against the stench.
Birdy’s hoarded stockpile filled the space, stacked in precarious piles, blocking the window light. I saw a cradle filled with mismatched china; a steamer trunk with a rusty birdcage on top; a pile of shoes in every style and size, no two the same; a collection of jewelry boxes; a tower of men’s hats. I’d been here before, but the sight always appalled me. I’d once tried to help her clean it up—tried returning the stolen items—but she’d gotten so upset and angry, I’d given up.
I found her in the back corner, huddled on a filthy mattress, her knees pulled up. She sniffed loudly, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “Mr. Oliver is dead.”
“Yes,” I said sadly. We both needed time to mourn, but not now. “Sheriff Crane is coming, and you can’t tell him you hurt Mr. Oliver, or he’ll think you killed him. Do you understand?”
Her face tightened in a scowl. “I don’t want to talk to the sheriff.” He’d locked her in jail a few times.
“Well, he’s coming anyway.” I glanced at the mess around the mattress. “Where is Mr. Oliver’s tea tin? The blue box that was on the table.”
Her scowl deepened. “His friend took it and said I can’t have it.”
“His friend?” My attention sharpened. “The Utleys?”
“No, not Utleys. His friend who saw me at the window. They got mad at me and ran away. Then I touched him and he fell over.” Birdy touched her forehead where Mr. Oliver’s head had been bleeding.
My heart beat faster. “Someone was there before I arrived?”
“They took the box. They said I’ll hang by my neck.”
They must have returned while I was gone. “Who was it, Birdy? Who took the pretty blue box?”
“His friend.” She drew a long sniff. “They said I’ll hang by my neck. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
Someone had threatened her—not a true friend, or they would have stayed to help. And they’d come back for the poisoned tea. “Who, Birdy? Can you tell me their name?”
She shook her head, fresh tears spilling. “I don’t know. I don’t want to hang by my neck.”
I fought for patience. “I won’t let that happen. Just tell me—just tell me where they live in town.” She didn’t know many names, but she knew windows.
She started moaning, rocking back and forth on the mattress, and I panicked. When something upset Birdy, she either wouldn’t stop talking about it, or she never talked about it again, pretending it hadn’t happened.
I forced my voice to a soothing low. “Birdy, this is important. I need you to tell me what they looked like.” But she only rocked harder—and my patience broke. I grabbed her wrist, my voice rising. “Just tell me—was it my father?”
She whimpered and jerked away, scooting back on the mattress, burying her face against her knees.
I groaned in frustration—more at myself than her. “I’m sorry, Birdy. I know this is hard. We both loved Mr. Oliver. But you must tell me who was there when he got sick. It’s very important.”
She tugged at her knitted cap and rocked.
His friend.
Father and Mr. Oliver were only passing acquaintances, but Birdy wouldn’t know that. Or, it might have been the person who’d told Mr. Oliver that my mother was innocent. The secret witness—a friend who’d confided in him, then regretted it and silenced him.
But who would care enough after all these years? Only the real killer—who I feared was Father. No one else had been close to the gun that night.
Birdy held the answer. I would coax it from her eventually, but Sheriff Crane was about to arrive. She would apologize for hurting Mr. Oliver and end up in jail, so terrified of a rope around her neck, she’d never tell me anything. I had to get her away before the sheriff arrived. Then, once I’d gotten the truth from her, I would decide what to do with it.
“Birdy, you need to come home with me.” She continued to rock on the mattress, her knees drawn up. I reached a cautious hand toward her. “Come on, it’ll be nice at my house. You won’t have to talk to the sheriff. And … I’ll make gingerbread.” The rocking stopped. “I’ll make gingerbread and read you a story.”
Slowly, I convinced her to leave the mattress, then the shack. She walked in front of me on the narrow footpath, her head bowed. But as soon as we reached the main trail, we heard men’s voices in the distance, and she darted into the trees, disappearing. Which was just as well, for a moment later, Sheriff Crane and his young watchman came around the bend.
“She isn’t there,” I told them. “I was just at the shack, and she’s gone.”
“Perhaps we’ll wait,” Sheriff Crane said, continuing past, his eyes hard with suspicion. He’d been listening to Mrs. Utley. When he reached the shack, he would find Birdy’s hoarded
treasures and know most of it was stolen. He would haul it back to town, where townspeople would paw through it, searching for their missing things. There would be a cry for Birdy’s arrest, fueled by Mrs. Utley’s claims that Birdy had killed Mr. Oliver.
A handy way to get rid of someone who didn’t fit in. Someone they didn’t understand.
I hurried home, determined to stop that from happening.
8
Birdy wasn’t in the kitchen when I entered through the back door. “Birdy?” I made my way toward the front of the house, glancing into the shadowy side rooms on either side of the grand foyer. “Birdy, are you here?”
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. I started up the staircase—then stopped. She hadn’t replied, which meant she wasn’t yet ready to talk. She’d just seen Mr. Oliver die, then been threatened by his killer, then bullied by me. “I’ll make gingerbread,” I called up the staircase.
I got busy in the kitchen, poking at the fire to get the temperature just right. I’d already bought ginger for Christmas, and I had plenty of molasses. I pulled out the mixing bowl and flour bin.
As the gingerbread baked, filling the kitchen with spicy aroma, someone knocked on the back door, then Sam entered, and I saw in his worried eyes that he’d heard. “Val.” He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms, his strength enfolding me.
For a moment, I remained stiff, then I allowed myself to sag against him.
As children, we used to touch every day and think nothing of it. But lately, we’d been more cautious. More aware of each other’s warmth as we walked side by side, neither of us daring to cross a boundary that didn’t used to exist. I knew that once Sam and I kissed, everything would change, and sometimes I didn’t feel ready for that.
“I heard you found him,” he said quietly.
I nodded against his chest, wondering if I dared tell him the full story. Sam didn’t like Father, thinking him neglectful, and Father might be completely innocent.
Sam’s strong arms rubbed gently around mine, and my bones started to melt. His chest always felt as solid as stone, yet moldable as clay. One of his hands slid behind my neck, and every part of me wanted to look up.
But today was not the day to cross that boundary. I gently separated myself.
“What did you hear?” I asked.
His gaze lingered on my lips. “That he was poisoned. That’s what Mrs. Utley says, and Dr. Pritchard agrees. I don’t know how he can tell, but that’s what people are saying.”
“Pritchard?” Nobody liked Dr. Pritchard, with his yellow teeth and stained bleeding bowl.
“He’s the only doctor who’ll look at the dead.” Sam’s eyes shifted. “They’re saying Birdy did it.”
Already the ugly story was spreading. “She didn’t, Sam. He was murdered, but not by Birdy.”
“She’s not right in the head, Val.”
“Someone else was there. She saw them, but whoever it was ran away, and she won’t tell me who they are.” I hesitated, then added, “She’s upstairs.”
Sam shook his head, frowning. “You can’t get involved in this, Val. The last thing you need is another scandal for people to talk about. And she probably did it. She’s strange, through and through. Remember those dead mice in the box?”
“She’s a rat catcher. People pay her to do that.”
“Not save them in a box. You can’t ruin your reputation over the village idiot.”
“Don’t call her that!”
“You’ve spent years trying to teach her the alphabet—for what?”
“To teach her! Because she enjoys it! Have you seen her face when she remembers the letter E? She gets just as excited as anyone else when they accomplish something. I don’t teach her because she’s smart; I teach her because she needs to learn and grow, same as the rest of us. You think I should stop going to school because there are people who are smarter than I am? Because I don’t always understand mathematics at first glance?”
Sam gave a dry laugh, looking away. He’d never understood why I bothered with Drake. He’d been happy to quit school at age twelve to shovel manure at a dairy. To Sam, shoveling manure was a lot more useful than Latin.
I turned my back, going to the fire to check the gingerbread. The flames were too high for baking. I grabbed the poker and stabbed at the log, and it collapsed into ash, filling me with satisfaction.
“She didn’t do it,” I snapped. “Someone else was there.”
Sam didn’t reply.
My temper collapsed as quickly as the log, despair taking its place. In the ashes, I saw Mr. Oliver’s vacant stare and Birdy’s tear-streaked face. I sank to the rocking chair next to the fire, my throat tight with the grief I’d been trying not to feel. I stared at the smoldering log. “She didn’t do it, Sam. They’ll hang her over this because she’s not like everyone else. Because it’s a way to get rid of her. But someone else poisoned him. She saw them.”
Sam picked up the hearth stool and brought it close to my rocking chair, lowering himself. “If that’s true, she just needs to tell Sheriff Crane, right?”
I looked up and found his face very near, full of concern. “Birdy won’t talk to him. Or if she does, she’ll say it all wrong and sound like she’s confessing. She’ll only talk to me.” I swallowed. “But not if you’re here, Sam. She’s probably heard your voice.”
His green eyes tightened. “You want me to leave?”
I saw his hurt, but nodded.
Sam stood, his large frame unfolding. “I don’t know why you bother with her.”
“Because she’s like me,” I said simply.
“How can you say that?”
“She lost everything as a child. Now, she’s alone, just trying to survive. Never fitting in.”
“You aren’t alone, Valentine. You have me. But that never seems to be enough for you.” Sam strode to the door and left.
* * *
When the gingerbread was done, I set it on the table to cool, then climbed the staircase. “Birdy?” She wasn’t in my bedroom or my father’s, which didn’t surprise me; I knew which part of the house fascinated her.
I went to the curtain that hid the burned part of the hall, drew a breath, and pulled it back.
The air smelled thick with ash. Or maybe that was my imagination; the flames had been doused twenty years ago. Three doorways gaped, but the windows in those rooms had been boarded up, leaving a shadowed gloom. Dust motes floated like ghosts.
A heavy feeling settled over me as I peered down the dark hall to the charred door at the end.
I’d heard the morbid stories in town. My mother’s twin brother, Daniel, had been my age when he’d fallen asleep at his desk and knocked a candle over. By the time someone had noticed the smoke, it had been too late; hungry flames had devoured everything inside—including Daniel. They’d found his body black and stiff, overcome as he’d tried to get out. According to Mrs. Utley, my mother had howled like the damned when she’d seen him … then remained silent for days.
I hadn’t been beyond the curtain in years. I moved carefully, glancing through the doorway on the right to a storage room that had little damage. Then I came to my mother’s childhood room on the left. I paused in the doorway.
Her bed had been hacked into black, jagged pieces to put out the fire, and the wall behind it had been reduced to charred timber. But the rest of the room looked untouched by flame, only browned by smoke and age, oddly frozen in time from when my mother was my age. A wardrobe door hung open, showing a row of limp dresses.
Birdy sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. She didn’t look up when I entered, bent over something on her lap.
“The gingerbread is done.” She didn’t reply, so I slid to the ground next to her. “I’m sorry if I frightened you earlier. I just—”
I stared at the object she was holding: a dark metal box about the size of a book, its lid flipped open. It was filled with money. Gold and silver coins, and paper money tied with yellow string. I stared at it, dumbfounded.
“Birdy, where did you get that?” She hadn’t been carrying it when we left her shack.
She didn’t reply, her head bowed.
“May I see?” I reached for the box, and she didn’t resist when I took it. My fingers shuffled through the bills, trying to count, but my mind wouldn’t settle and I lost track. Not a great fortune, at any rate, but more than I’d ever seen in one place. “Where did you get it, Birdy?” She didn’t answer. I picked up a silver coin and held it toward her. “If you tell me, you can keep this.”
She snatched the coin and stood, and I quickly followed, closing the box and bringing it with me. She passed the curtain in the hall and entered Father’s room, pointing under the bed. I knelt and saw that two floorboards had been lifted, revealing a dark space below.
Leave it to Birdy to find hidden treasure in this house. She must have been hiding under the bed and noticed the loose boards. I wondered how long the money had been there—and why Father hadn’t spent it when it was sorely needed.
I noticed an emblem on the box’s lid. Blackshaw Bank. My heart beat faster. Father didn’t have an account; he didn’t trust banks and had little enough to put in one. I wondered fleetingly if he’d stolen the money, but I pushed that thought down. Someone must have given it to him. But why? And why not spend it when we needed it? Why hide it as if it were something shameful?
I decided to return the box to its hiding place for now. I reached under the bed and dropped it into the hole, then replaced the floorboards. I stood and straightened the bed.
Across the room, Birdy hummed quietly as she rolled her new silver coin across the top of Father’s dresser.
“Leave the box in the floor, all right?” She gave no indication that she’d heard—which gave me little hope of learning anything soon. “You’ll need to stay at my house for a while, Birdy. You can sleep in my room. If someone comes, hide in the burned room, behind the dresses in the wardrobe. If they find you, they’ll put you in jail.”
The coin stopped rolling. I hated to frighten her, but the threat was real.
As proven a few hours later when Sheriff Crane knocked on the front door. I gave Birdy a moment to scramble upstairs to her hiding place, then opened the front door a short distance. “I’m sorry, but I can’t invite you in. My father isn’t home.”
Girl at the Grave Page 5
