Charles Todd: A Lonely Death

He heard the squeak of the barn door and leaned around the edge of the stall, to see who was there. "Pa? Is that you? I told you I'd come to your room as soon as I saw to things here."

There was no answer. His father shouldn't have walked that far. He'd be out of breath, shaking.

Roper got to his feet, feeling a tingle in one leg from crouching there by Dandelion until his foot had gone to sleep under him. Picking up his lantern, he walked down the aisle, past the stalls where his three horses dozed, undisturbed by their temporary neighbor's restlessness, and saw that the outer door was open several inches-but there was no one inside the barn after all. Had his father had a fainting spell?

Crossing quickly to the door, he peered outside and saw that someone was standing a little distance away in the shadow of the cowshed. Not his father, then-this was someone taller, straighter, younger. He could just make out the man's features, but they meant nothing to him. Someone needing work, then. In the past six months he could have hired a dozen men like this, walking the roads, footsore and hopeful. But the farm could barely keep his own family and that of one laborer, and he had come to hate turning hope into hopelessness. He put off the moment of decision.

"Looking for me?" Roper asked, then went on quickly. "Sorry, I'm attending a cow. Can it wait?"

"It can wait," the man said. "Go back to your cow."

Roper nodded and left the door ajar, out of courtesy.

Dandelion was on her feet when he got back to her stall, mouthing the hay he had put in the manger for her, looking at him with what he swore was mischief in her dark eyes. "You just wanted company, then, did you?" he said, scratching her between her horns. "Too good for the yard, that's what you are." He'd long suspected that it was true-she had been sickly in her first year and kept in the stall where she was petted and made much of, and even now preferred the barn. "All right, you can stay here the night, but I'm going to bed." He stepped back, studying her for a moment to be sure she was recovered.

One of the horses snorted, moving uneasily in his stall. And then Roper was startled by a sound just behind him. Before he could turn, something flashed before his eyes, bright in the lantern's glow, tightening around his throat before he could put up his hands to protect himself. It cut into the skin with such force he could feel blood trickling down his neck. Dandelion jerked away, moving to the back of the stall, the whites of her eyes showing her fear, but he was beyond worrying about her, fighting for his life with the breath left in him. Strong as he was, the man behind him had a fearsome strength. And then Roper was on his knees on the hard-packed earthen floor, aware that he didn't have a chance in hell. A last fleeting thought as he died was for the lantern, and a dread that it had overturned in the struggle.

And Jimmy Roper became the second victim. T he third to die was the son of the present owner of the Pierce family's brewery. It occupied three stone buildings that had once belonged to the abbey and had fallen into ruin. But the abbot had built well, and Pierce's grandfather had bought them, renovated them, and made his fortune from them. The brewery stood on the inland side of Eastfield, where the road up from Hastings turned toward Battle, and in the beginning the family had occupied quarters in the third building, but expansion had put paid to that, and prosperity had brought them a fine house on Abbey Street.

That was a generation ago, and Tyrell Pierce, Anthony's father, had become a man to reckon with in the community. Anthony himself had come home from the war with one leg, but that hadn't prevented him from taking his place in the firm, continuing his rise through the ranks from the driver of the dray to assistant to the brewmaster. His father was a strong believer in an owner's intimate knowledge of each position in the yard and in the brew house.

On this night-the third since Jimmy Roper's death-Anthony Pierce had gone back to the brew house to look at one of the temperature gauges on the new kettle. It had been playing up and must either be repaired or replaced on the morrow. The foreman had tinkered with it earlier, with no success, and after dinner Anthony had strolled down to have a go at it, certain that it could be salvaged. His father had spoken to a supplier in London who had informed him that it would require three days to find and ship the new gauge, and that would mean that the current batch of mash would have to be dumped, at a loss.

He had always liked the smell of the brew house, almost a sour odor, rich and thick on a warm night. The door was never locked, and lighting his lantern, he walked in, climbed to the first floor, and went to the bench where the foreman had left his tools. Setting the lamp there, he walked over to study the offending piece of equipment.

After working with it for some minutes, he stepped back. There was no hope of repairing it. The foreman had been right. If it went now, they would just have to absorb the loss of this one kettle, clean it out, and wait for the new gauge to arrive before starting it up again. Twelve more hours, that's all they needed. And if luck was with them…

He shook his head, and then put his tools back on the bench.

Anthony Pierce had served as an officer in the war and was accustomed to leading men. He was popular enough with the brewery workers, and when he heard the outer door on the ground floor open with its familiar scraping sound, he called out, "I'm up here. Is that you, Fred? It's hopeless. I'll drive to London tomorrow myself, and see if I can expedite replacing the damned thing."

But the man who appeared on the stairs, his footfalls steady on the treads, was a stranger, not the brewmaster. Pierce frowned, said, "This building is closed to outsiders. Is there something you wanted?"

The man said, "Not really. I thought you might remember me."

Thinking the man was looking for work, Pierce said, "Is it help you need?"

"No. I'm here for old time's sake."

"Well, I'm just closing up. Walk down with me." He limped toward the man, wondering for a moment if he'd served with him. But the face wasn't familiar at all. And although he was dressed plainly, his clothes were of good quality. Not money then-he wasn't looking for work.

When Pierce reached the wooden stairs, the man moved aside. "You've got a new leg, I see. Why don't you go first?"

Pierce was reluctant, but he said only, "All right," and started down, one hand on the rail. He could hear the footfalls of the man behind him, almost pressing on his heels, and he felt a sudden unease. He told himself it was only because the cursed leg was new and he was still nervous about falling.

They had reached the ground floor, and Pierce crossed to the heavy door, his hand already out to push it wide, when he realized that there was something wrong. He was on the point of turning to order the other man to precede him into the alley between the brew house and the storage sheds when he saw the wire flash in front of his eyes.

He put up a good fight for a man with one false leg. But of course it was no use. He was no match for his murderer. The last thing he heard was a harsh whisper almost in his ear, and then nothing.

When the first of the workmen arrived the next morning, he was lying on the stone floor within a few feet of the door, his body already cold.

Rutledge found a letter waiting for him in his flat. As he picked up the envelope from the floor, he recognized the handwriting at once. Setting his hat on the table by the door, he crossed to a window, opening the envelope as he went and pulling out the single sheet inside. He could feel the tension in his mind that was Hamish, and tried to ignore it as he spread the sheet wide.