Free Turncoat by Don Gutteridge

your s-s-s-sword?” he asked.
    â€œI am pleased to meet you,” Marc said, “and my sword’s tucked safely in my saddle-roll.”
    â€œAaron’s goin’ to be sixteen next month,” Beth said.
    The lad nodded but seemed more interested in shuffling an inch or two closer to this mirage in his parlour.
    Beth touched him on the arm. “Mr. Edwards and I have some important business to talk over. Go out and help Elijah with the feed, would you?”
    Reluctantly the youth shuffled himself out the back door.
    â€œHe was born like that. With the palsy. He’s not really simple, but it’s a strain for him to talk. With us, though, there isn’t much need.”
    They sat down again.
    A log rolled off its andiron, spraying sparks into the air, and the brief flare sent a wave of heat to the far side of the large room where they were seated, reminding them how cold it had become. Beth pulled her cardigan on with a shy, self-conscious gesture, but Marc had already averted his eyes.
    â€œMurder is a terrible word, Mr. Edwards,” she said at last.
    â€œDoes it surprise you to hear it used in association with your father-in-law?”
    She did not answer right away. “I didn’t believe the magistrate’s findin’ for one minute,” she said slowly. “Father wouldn’t have got himself lost out there, even in a blizzard.”
    â€œMore experienced woodsmen have,” Marc said. “Or so I’ve been told,” he felt constrained to add.
    â€œThe horse he was riding was the only one we’ve ever owned.”
    â€œYour … husband’s?”
    She nodded. “All he had to do was drop the reins and Belgium would’ve carried him home safe and sound.”
    â€œYou told this to the inquest?”
    She smiled wanly. “I did.”
    â€œMrs. Smallman, I’m certain you are right.”
    If she found this remark unexpected or patronizing, she gave no sign. “He went out there for a reason, that much I do know,” she said.
    â€œAnd I believe that that reason, when we discover it, will lead us to his murderer.”
    â€œYou forget that he walked into a bear-trap,” she said. “That was … tragic, but not murder.” She swallowed hard, fighting off tears, and suddenly Marc wished he were any place but here.
    As quickly and tactfully as he could, Marc told her what he and Hatch had found the previous afternoon out near Bass Cove.
    â€œYou’re saying someone just stood up there and watched him die?”
    â€œYes. And that is tantamount to murder, especially if your father-in-law was deliberately lured out there.”
    She turned and looked closely at him. “Joshua Smallman was a lovable man. He could not bring himself to tell a lie. He had no enemies. He gave up his business in town to come back here and help me run the farm.” Her voice thickened. “He was the finest man I’ve ever known.” The pause and the candidness of her glance confirmed that she was including her husband in the appraisal. “If he was called out on New Year’s Eve, it was to assist a friend or someone in need.”
    Marc hesitated long enough for Beth to discern that he had absorbed and appreciated the reasonableness of this claim. After all, it coincided with everything he had heard so far about Joshua Smallman. Still, someone seemed to have wished him harm, or at the very least colluded in his death. He pushed ahead, gently. “Would you tell me as much as you can remember about that evening? If it’s too painful, I could return another time.”
    â€œI’ll make some more tea,” she said.
    â€œW E WERE PLANNIN’ TO HAVE A little celebration here to mark the end of the year, it bein’ also a year to the day since Father’d arrived. You understand, though, it couldn’t’ve been entirely a celebration.”
    â€œYes. Your … husband must have been