Sanguine Solutions

by Jess Faraday

  Jenny Stark was a small, rawboned woman. Dressed in nightclothes, carrying a candle end in a little jar in one hand, and a rolling pin in the other, one might have mistaken her for a maiden aunt. As she drew closer, I readjusted my assessment of her age to, perhaps her early thirties.

  “Mrs. Stark?” I said.

  “Miss.”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Pearce.” I took out my wallet, found my warrant card, and held it out for her to inspect.

  She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want? What’s happened?”

  Just then there was a squawk. Someone in the darkness squealed “No!” I slipped inside and shut the door behind me just as a speckled hen made her bid for freedom.

  “That’s not your chicken,” I said as the bird stopped short, looked from me to Miss Stark, then back into the darkness.

  “Is that why you come knocking so late?” Miss Stark asked. “Over a bird?”

  “No, I came about a death.”

  Her eyes went wide and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Was it Guthrie?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Mam?” a voice asked.

  “Go back to sleep.”

  A young woman stepped out of the darkness. She was barefoot and wrapped in a blanket. She looked about thirteen which, given the state of the family’s poverty, probably meant closer to sixteen. Beneath the blanket I could see that she was wearing muddy clothes. Her feet were bare, and her shins, like her too-short hems, were spattered with muck. I squinted into the shadows. The last thing I wanted was to be surprised by an angry boyfriend—or a frightened murderer. I counted two people standing, an infant in a cradle, and two small lumps that I took for sleeping children.

  “I didn’t hurt Mr. Guthrie,” the girl said.

  “Go back to bed, Cora!” Miss Stark said.

  “No,” I said. I addressed the girl. “You did steal his speckled hen, though. Those were your footprints I followed through the mud.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide. Briefly I wondered what I should do. A judge in Truro had recently sentenced a nine-year-old poultry thief to five years in a reformatory and a good whipping. But this wasn’t some half-feral London street urchin with a blade in one hand and my wallet in the other. The girl and her mother looked half-starved. I’d not like to see a young girl whipped for trying to feed her family. Jenny Stark apparently concurred. She scooped up the bird and thrust it into my arms.

  “You can see this bird ain’t hurt. You take it back to Mr. Guthrie. Go on, now.”

  The hen began to wiggle and cluck. I tucked it under my arm.

  “There’s still the matter of the dead man,” I said.

  “We don’t know nothing about that.”

  Ignoring Miss Stark, I addressed myself to her daughter. “Guthrie caught you stealing his chicken. You ran. He shot off his rifle, but you were already well down the path through his field. There was a man, there. He grabbed the bird, and you screamed.”

  “You can’t prove—” the mother began.

  “How did you know all that?” Cora asked.

  “That man is dead, now,” I said.

  “She didn’t do that!” Miss Stark cried.

  Looking at the scrawny, shivering, barefoot specimen, I was inclined to agree. She wouldn’t have had either the height or the strength. Nonetheless, I couldn’t discount the possibility, at least until other possibilities presented themselves.

  “Did you know that man?” I asked the girl.

  “I—”

  “Of course she didn’t!” Miss Stark said.

  I rounded on her. “Madam, if you can’t let your daughter answer for herself, I’ll have to drag her to Bodmin and question her at the station.”

  Miss Stark’s mouth snapped shut, and she took a step back. The bird struggled and flapped beneath my elbow. I tightened my arm around it.

  “Did you know that man?” I asked.

  I watched young Cora Stark draw herself up. Her expression took on a resolve that was remarkably like that of her mother—as were the worry lines that prematurely creased her face. As she straightened, the blanket she wore as a shawl slipped down her shoulders to reveal a dress that had passed through several sets of hands before hers, and which was woefully inadequate to conceal her developing body. I adjusted my gaze away.

  “It was just like you said, Constable,” she said, seemingly unaware of the spectacle her form was presenting in the light of my lantern. “He must’ve been waiting in the grass there, because he seen me and grabbed me as I came by.”

  “Grabbed you or grabbed the chicken?”

  “The chicken first, then…then when he got a better look he saw something he wanted more.”

  I swore under my breath. “Did you know him?”

  She shook her head solemnly. “He ain’t from here. I never seen him before.”

  “Right. Then what happened?”

  As she told her tale—the man had grabbed her; she’d dropped the chicken; he’d slipped in the muck; she’d slithered out of his grip—anger built inside of me. Not just at the idea that someone would attack a young girl, but that he would do it in what I was rapidly coming to think of as my territory.

  “He was about to grab me again when another man come crashing through the field behind him.”

  “Another man? Who was it?”

  She shook her head. “Never seen him neither. Big man, though.”

  “Older man? Young? Dark hair or light? What about his clothes?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. In the middle, I guess. Older’n the first man, but not old. It was dark and I didn’t get a good look at him. I just grabbed up that hen and ran. That’s the whole story, Constable, I swear.”

  Two men, then, and the other wasn’t Guthrie, or anyone else known to Cora Stark. Damn and blast. The new Bodmin train station that connected the town to the London line had been bringing all sorts of enterprising criminals into the area. It was bound to spill over to the surrounding villages one of these days. I’d have to visit the Chief Inspector in the morning to see if he could enlighten me. I picked up my lantern, and its glow cast Cora Stark’s new curves in a very disconcerting light. The dress was too small, too tight, and plastered to her body with the same mud weighing down my trouser legs.

  To Jenny Stark, I said, “You sent her out wearing that?”

  “What’s her dress got to do with it?” Jenny said.

  I opened my mouth to say something about how the garment left little to the imagination, but thought better of it. It couldn’t have been the girl’s choice to wear such a thing. Even if it had been, that hardly meant she’d asked to be assaulted by a stranger along a lonely, muddy path.

  “It’s hardly appropriate for this weather,” I said instead.

  “Then maybe you’d like to buy her a new one.”

  “I’m sorry about the chicken, Constable,” the girl said before her mother could say anything else. When she spoke again, her voice broke. “Please don’t send me to a reformatory.”

  “Theft is a crime,” I replied. “But I think you’ve been through enough tonight. I’ll take this bird back to Guthrie, but if it happens again, I’m going to have to do more than issue a warning.”

  “Yes, Constable.”

  I turned to Miss Stark. “Are your children in school?”

  “The little ones are.”

  “And this one?” The woman blinked, her mouth open, as if she were trying to figure out what to say. “All of these children need to be in school, Miss Stark, if they want to make something of themselves one day.”

  “But—”

  “All of them,” I repeated. “But not tomorrow. Someone killed a man not far from here. If I were you, I’d lock your doors tonight, don’t open them to anyone. And stay nearby until we catch him.”

  “But tomorrow’s the book lady!” Cora cried.

  Damn and blast! Abby had said something about that at dinner. She and Theo were trying to expand library services to Penbreigh. They�
��d brought a load of books with them in their cart. They were going to visit the school tomorrow morning.

  “If you can all go together,” I said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it until the man is caught.”

  •••

  The rain was coming down in sheets by the time I returned to Guthrie’s with his blasted Speckled Sussex.

  “Piskies didn’t lead you astray, then?” he asked with a grin. Biting back what I really wanted to say, I thrust the bird into his hands. He continued. “It was them Starks, wasn’t it? Rotten, them, to the core. Good for nothing but stealing chickens and bringing more bastards into the world.”

  “It’s cold, wet and miserable out there,” I replied. “Not to mention nearly two o’clock in the morning. Nonetheless, I chased your hen through rain and muck and brought her back. I do hope you’ll remember it the next time you have something to say about idle bobbies living off the village purse.” He blinked. “Also, a man died in your field earlier tonight. His killer is still about, so keep your doors locked. And if you see or hear anything, make sure to report it.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, I turned on my heel and stalked back toward the main road.

  •••

  I’d intended to wake up early the next morning, gather a few volunteers, and spread a warning —keep your doors and windows locked; don’t walk out alone after dark; report anything or anyone that looks suspicious. Unfortunately by the time I rolled out of bed, scrambled into my clothes, and sprinted downstairs, it was nearly eleven o’clock.

  “Up to the devil’s business last night?” My landlady, Morwenna Dowrick, asked with a smirk as I burst into the tavern. She was in her mid-thirties, but wielded a natural authority.

  “Hardly.”

  “Alice does throw a good party, though. Saved your breakfast if you’re interested.”

  “Later,” I said. “I need to—”

  “Warn everyone to keep their doors and windows locked?” she finished. “Guthrie was in here earlier. Said someone was killed in his field last night. That and Jenny Stark is a no-good chicken thief.”

  “Is Guthrie doing my job now?”

  Mrs. Dowrick cracked a grin. “No, just doing his—as the village busybody. Been up and down the high street telling everyone all about it.”

  “Good grief.”

  “Look at it this way. It’s one less thing for you to do this morning.”

  Nonetheless, I’d make the village rounds anyway just to be certain Guthrie hadn’t missed anyone out or been too creative with the events.

  “Breakfast?” Mrs. Dowrick asked.

  “Sure, why not? Just hold the eggs. I’ve had enough of chickens for now.”

  She laughed as she walked back into the kitchen.

  Dowrick’s was a pleasant old country tavern, with thick, whitewashed walls, the persistent sharp smell of smoke, and heavy ceiling beams blackened from more than a century of fires in the enormous fireplace against one wall. My room above it was small and spare, but I enjoyed living on top of a lively business, and the Dowricks liked having a copper around to keep an eye on the place.

  Mrs. Dowrick returned with a plate laden with sausages, bacon, beans and toast, and a steaming mug of tea. “You ask me, Guthrie can spare a chicken. Jenny and those kids could use a good meal.”

  “Maybe, but you let someone steal a chicken, next time it’ll be a sheep. And it wasn’t Jenny, it was the oldest girl, Cora. They get into trouble often, those kids?”

  Morwenna frowned. She was a mother herself, though unlike Jenny Stark, she was round, ruddy-cheeked and robust. And she ran her family, and her business, like a naval vessel. I couldn’t imagine any of her kids daring to steal a chicken.

  “Nothing a firm hand wouldn’t sort out, but it’s hard to have a firm hand when you’re struggling to keep food on the table and a roof over their scruffy little heads.”

  “No father?”

  Morwenna raised an eyebrow. “She’s better off without him.” Then she shrugged. “Cora left school recently. I imagine she’ll be looking after the little ones. That should help some.”

  “Won’t help Cora,” I said around a mouthful of beans. “That child needs to be in school.”

  She looked thoughtful. “You’re probably right about that. She’s quick, I’ve heard. Helps the teacher with the kids who aren’t. Still, best she gets some practice looking after babies before she starts making them herself.”

  I set my fork back on the plate. “A dismal prospect.”

  “That’s reality. Them kids ain’t bound for the House of Lords. And the girls? What’s in their future, eh?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But if they go to school they at least have a chance.”

  Mrs. Dowrick said, “Then Jenny better find that girl some clothes. She keeps running about in that one dress of hers, she’s going to find herself with a different kind of education.”

  I remembered the too-small, mud-spattered dress the girl had been wearing. It hadn’t occurred to me that she didn’t own another. I made a note to ask Elizabeth if she could bring the girl one of her cast-offs. The good doctor may have had practical tastes, but she had come from money and probably had at least one dress to spare.

  “Are you here alone today?” I asked. “Where’s Mr. Dowrick?”

  “He’s out back, getting ready to head up to Bodmin. You run, you can probably still catch him.”

  I could, of course, have walked to Bodmin. But the skies had gone gray again, and the smell of rain hung in the air. Thanking her again for breakfast, I jogged out through the back door.

  “Mr. Dowrick!” I called. He was checking the harness on his horse. He looked up when I called out. “You’re going into Bodmin just now?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Let me guess. You’re about to warn me about killers on the road.”

  “Even better. Give me an hour, and I can give you a police escort.”

  The rain held off, thankfully, while I made a quick round of the high street. I hated to leave the village with a murderer about, but I needed to talk to Landry. By the time we set off, it had started again, making me grateful not only for the ride, but also for Arthur Dowrick’s covered cart. Dowrick was a man of few words—another point of gratitude—so I took the opportunity to continue reading Cal’s letter. There were the usual greetings, an account of a medical school prank gone hilariously wrong, and then this.

  Perhaps you can give me some advice. Today Claude suggested we go for a walk in the hills. I wanted to go to a museum instead. He didn’t say it, but I’m certain he thought me pretentious, and boring and old.

  I laughed. At the same time, that very disagreement had started the chain of events that had ended with Cal throwing me out of his flat, and out of his life. Not to mention—had my preference for the museum caused him to think me boring, pretentious, and old? And who the devil was Claude? How many friends did that make now? I’d lost count.

  Arthur glanced over at my sigh. I shook my head. It wasn’t worth the aggravation. And to prove as much, I added a few lines to the letter I’d write as soon as I had a moment free of murderers, pilfered poultry, and sharp-tongued women.

  Be kind. Though you might sometimes think him shallow and spoilt, more likely he’s just young. In time, perhaps he’ll come to appreciate what a fine friend he has in you.

  The rain had stopped by the time we arrived in Bodmin, though the ominous rumbles said that Nature was holding that right in reserve. Mr. Dowrick let me off along the high street, and I started toward the constabulary. As I passed by the shops, a window display caught my eye. It was a draper’s shop, with a selection of fabrics for sale. However, a sign in the corner advertised a small selection of ready-to-wear clothing on offer as well. Such things were widely available in London, however, in far-flung places like Bodmin most people made their own clothing exclusively. The dress in the window appeared to be about the right size for Cora Stark, perhaps a bit larger. It was of simple, plain design
and looked both modest and warm.

  Thinking back to my own childhood, I could remember each of the few completely new garments I’d ever received, and exactly what one or the other of my parents had gone without in order to provide it. Had any of the Stark children ever worn anything not cast off by someone else? More than once, an unexpected act of kindness had made an enormous difference in my life, and now I was in a position to return chance’s favor. Before I knew it, I found myself walking through the door and approaching the counter.

  The clerk turned from the shelf he was straightening. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “That dress in the window. May I see it?” He narrowed his eyes. I was still getting used to the suspicious, small-town mindset, and the idea that one’s private business was public property. The dress was an unusual purchase for a young, unmarried man. “It’s for my niece,” I added.

  “Of course, sir.”

  He went to the front window and took down the dress, which he laid out on the counter in front of me.

  “How old is your niece, sir?”

  “Fifteen?” It was a guess, but probably a good one.

  “Height? Weight? General build?”

  “Er…small for her age. Thin.”

  “Mmm.” He brought out a tape measure and I evaluated the measurements of the dress against what I imagined to be those of Miss Stark.

  “The skirt is cut wide to be let out as the young lady grows,” the clerk said. “And she can also let down the hems if necessary.” He flipped over the hem to show the six inches of extra fabric.

  “It looks warm,” I said.

  “It’s made from the finest wool—strong and soft.”

  “Finest wool” sounded expensive. Nonetheless, I asked, “Is it appropriate for school? An ordinary village school. Nothing fancy.”

  “Oh, yes, I should think so.”