Free The Tenderness of Wolves by Stef Penney Page B

I’m puzzled, but he seems sincere. ‘I must admit, I did not know him particularly well, though I am sorry for his death. I believe that it was … sudden.’
    I suppose sudden is one way of putting it.
    ‘It must seem rather grasping of me to come for this object so soon after his death, but I really think it could be important. It is nothing to look at, and it would be a terrible pity if it were thrown away out of ignorance. So there you are–that is why I am here.’
    He has a way of looking at me that I find disarming–open and rather unsure of himself. Even if he is lying, I can’t think what harm he could mean.
    ‘Well Mr Sturrock,’ I begin, ‘I haven’t …’
    I break off suddenly, for I hear something else–a rattle of pebbles on the path behind the cabin. Instantly I seize the lantern from the stove.
    ‘Mr Sturrock, I will help you, if you will help me and do as I say. Go outside and hide yourself in the bushes by the river. Say nothing. If you do this, and are not discovered, I will tell you what I know.’
    His mouth opens in amazement, but he moves with impressive speed for a man his age: he is out the door the second I finish speaking. I blow out the lantern and pull the door to, giving the wire a twist to hold it closed before slipping into the bushes of Jammet’s overgrown garden. I silently thank Jammet for his lack of horticultural pride; the place could hide a dozen of us.
    I try to melt into the bushes, aware that one of my feet is sinking into something soft and wet. The footsteps comecloser, and a lantern light, swinging in the hand of a dark figure.
    To my eternal shock, it is my husband.
    He holds up the lantern, opens the door and goes inside. I wait for an appreciable time, getting colder by the moment, my shoe soaking up water, wondering when Sturrock is going to get fed up and reappear to talk to the newcomer instead of the insane woman. Then Angus comes out again, fixing the door behind him. He barely looks around before disappearing up the path, and soon even his light is hidden from view.
    It is now quite dark. I stand up stiffly, my joints cracking, and pull my foot out of the soft muck. The stocking is soaked. I find matches and manage with difficulty to relight the lamp.
    ‘Mr Sturrock,’ I call, and a few moments later he comes into the circle of my lantern, brushing leaves off his shabby coat.
    ‘Well, that was rather an adventure.’ He smiles at me. ‘Who was the gentleman from whom we had to hide?’
    ‘I don’t know. It was too dark to see. Mr Sturrock, I apologise for my behaviour, you must think me very peculiar. I am going to be frank, as you have been with me, and perhaps we can help each other.’
    I unfasten the door as I speak, and the smell hits me afresh. If Sturrock notices, he does a good job of hiding it.
    Most men, when their wives disappear at twilight and come back after dark with a male stranger, would not be as gracious as Angus is. It is one of the reasons I married him. In the beginning it was because he trusted me: now, I don’t know, perhaps he no longer believes me capable of arousing impure feelings, or simply no longer cares. Total strangers are rare in Dove River; usually they are cause for celebration,but Angus just looks up and nods calmly. Then again, perhaps he saw him at the cabin.
    Sturrock talks little about himself, but as we eat I form a picture. A picture of a man with holes in his shoes and a taste for fine tobacco. A man who eats pork and potatoes as if he hadn’t seen a decent meal in a week. A man of delicacy and intelligence, and disappointment, perhaps. And something else–ambition. For he wants that little piece of bone, whatever it is, very much.
    We tell him about Francis. Children do get lost in the bush. It has been known. We discuss, inevitably, the Seton girls. Like everyone else above the Border, he knows of them. Sturrock points out the differences between the Seton girls and Francis, and I agree that Francis is