Free Death at Gallows Green by Robin Paige Page B

time and the opportunity to let her know how he felt had never come together. And then suddenly the banns were being said for her and Artie, and all his hopes had died.
    A dozen years, but she was still beautiful. It was the first thing in his mind when he and Charlie took her the dreadful news: how beautiful she was, with that sad, silent dignity that tore at his heart. It couldn’t matter now, of course, although he’d lain awake many nights in the intervening years, lonely and longing, wishing for Agnes beside him, and envying Artie with such a woman in his bed. But that had been then, and this was now, and seventeen and ten a year would pay the rent on the cottage but leave nothing for food.
    At the bar, the jurors had drunk up Hodson’s pint and were into their own. If they kept on drinking for long, they’d do it on the tick, since most wouldn’t have another shilling in their pockets until the end of the week. They were discussing the case loudly, over the rusty wheeze of the concertina someone was playing outside the front door. Sanders the publican—a tall, lanky man in slippers and trousers too short for his legs—was saying to a tenant farmer who had just lost his farm, “ ’Tis no gud gooin’ agin th’ gentry, Jack. They got th’ land an’ they got th’ money, an’ what’ve you got?” He spoke with the authority of one who owned his own business, while the dispossessed farmer sadly hung his head and wiped his eyes on a grimy sleeve.
    â€œI wonder,” Charles said slowly, “if I could be of some help in this matter.”
    Edward gulped the dregs of his beer and poured a third, the last in the pitcher. “God-awful beer,” he muttered, slopping it on the table. “Any more murders ‘round here, ol’ Harry ought to move th’ inquest t’ th’ Marlborough, where a man c’n get somethin’ decent to drink afterward.”
    â€œI had it in mind, Nerd,” Charles remarked, his gaze steadily on Edward, “to look into Artie’s murder myself.”
    Edward leaned his head on his hand. His vision was blurry and his tongue felt thick. Sanders probably brewed his beer in the privy. “Y‘did right well th’ last time y’ took it in mind t’ look into a murther, Charlie,” he said, lapsing into a slurred country idiom. “Not even th’ doctor guessed what ’twas that did for th’ Ardleigh sisters.”
    Charles was thoughtful. “I don’t suppose you have seen Miss Ardleigh since she received her inheritance.”
    â€œ ’N th’ contrary,” Edward said, rubbing the back of his neck. “See her quite oft’n.”
    Charles looked up, startled. “The devil you say.”
    Edward pursed his lips. If it had been anybody but Charlie, he would not have confided the truth. “Been teachin’ her t’ ride a bicycle,” he said. Miss. Ardleigh’s request for the lessons had come as a surprise, but he had been glad to help. He understood and honoured the wish for independence that lay behind her desire to ride a bicycle. So it was with pleasure that he had helped her obtain a suitable machine and had devoted several delightful Sunday evenings to assisting her wobbly efforts. The friendly, casual intimacy of their excursions had proved a welcome break in the humdrum routine of the police work that was the centre of his life. He grinned fondly.
    â€œLovely sight, that, I’ll tell ye, Charlie m’ friend. Kate Ardleigh on her cycle, weavin’ merrily down th’ lane from ditch t’ ditch, singin’ at th’ top o’ her lungs. Even rode into Mrs. Perry’s black cow one afternoon. But she’s stayed with it, bless her. Goes flyin’ down the High Street, proud as ye please, basket piled wi’ parcels. She’s a wonder, she is.”
    His grin faded slightly and he fell into silence. He