Free Murder on the Thirteenth by A.E. Eddenden Page A

spectacular sighting of a scarlet male cardinal against a sunlit snowbank. A small number of other congenial hikers shared their woods, but mostly they had the trails and hills to themselves.
    Tretheway set a rigorous pace. Often he had to wait for the others to catch up. And near the end of their walk, they allhad to wait for the Squire’s breath to come back and his stitch to recede. Fred covered four times the distance of everyone else.
    Back at the house, Tretheway pitched into making dinner. Earlier he had put a large roast of beef—a product of their pooled meat ration coupons and a friendly grocer—into the oven. The tantalizing aroma already pervaded the lower floor of the house. Now potatoes were added, large turnips and cabbages set to cooking and a generous dash of Tretheway’s favourite curry for the gravy. It was his custom to cook Sunday dinner. He favored simple fare, English style, competently cooked with large servings—a gourmand’s delight.
    Everybody enjoyed the satisfying meal, except for the Squire. He picked at his food and said he was still recovering from the pain in his side, but Gum more than made up for him. And the student boarders ate as if they were going into hibernation.
    After their guests had left and the students had returned to their studies, the Tretheways and Jake rounded out their day in the quiet of the small parlour. Tretheway sat in his oversized chair, feet stretched out, eyes half closed, puffing contentedly on a large cigar while Jake and Addie enjoyed some tea. Fat Rollo snored in front of the small parlour fire.
    They turned the radio on at eight to laugh with Charlie McCarthy and his country cousins. A half-hour later their mood changed to pleasurable fear with “Inner Sanctum”. They were brought back to reality at nine o’clock by Walter Winchell and the war news, but returned to humorous fantasy when Fred Allen took them on his weekly trip down Allen’s Alley. At ten Jake perked up when the hockey game started. Addie said goodnight and retired. Tretheway turned the game off at eleven to hear “The Hermit’s Cave.” Jake said good night. When a live Benny Goodman show came on, Tretheway lit another cigar and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t like that kind of music but he found it great background for contemplation. For thenext while, he blew thinking smoke rings and carefully went over the events of Saturday night.
    At midnight, as usual, he stoked the coal furnace, made the rounds checking windows and doors and patted Fat Rollo on the head hard enough to make him wake up, blinking, and stop snoring. On his way through the kitchen, Tretheway automatically pulled a quart of Molson’s Blue from the ice box. He popped its cap off on the way upstairs to his quarters.
    In the late afternoon, Monday, after an ordinary work day that held no surprises, Tretheway sat at the kitchen table with the
Fort York Expositor
spread out before him. He still had his uniform trousers on, but had changed into slippers and one of his many emblazoned sweat shirts. This one said, blue on white, “1928 Niagara Falls Police Games. Record Hammer Throw”. Addie busied herself preparing roast beef leftovers while Jake struggled with the full pan of water under the ice box.
    â€œHow’s the war news, boss?” Jake carefully carried the pan over to the sink.
    Tretheway turned back to the first page.
“‘Empress of Canada
claimed torpedoed again’,” he read the headline.
    â€œThat’s the fourth time she’s been sunk,” Jake chuckled.
    â€œâ€˜Biggest Battle of Tunisian Campaign’.”
    â€œI think Monty’s making his move,” Jake said.
    â€œâ€˜Essen all but destroyed by RAF’.”
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, Albert,” Addie said. “Didn’t anything nice happen?”
    â€œNot on the front page, Addie,” Tretheway said.
    â€œAnything on the