Thaddeus Lewis Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Janet Kellough
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to fit the occasion, with a nod to Minta’s boy and the hope that Rachel had been reborn in the Lord.
Afterward, the women spent a little more time admiring the baby, but when they started to file out, Minta hung back.
“I’d hoped to speak with you privately,” she said.
“Of course,” he said, smiling. He was really growing very fond of this small quiet woman.
“There’s something I feel I need to say, but I don’t know who else to say it to.”
He waited silently until she was ready to tell him.
“It concerns the night that Henry was born. Seth was there right afterward, and I remember him picking up the boy and looking at him. I was afraid he would hurt it, he’s so big and the baby was so tiny.”
Lewis nodded. There was a good reason men were generally kept out of the childbirth business. It was a delicate affair and they were seldom as careful as the women would like.
“I fell asleep after that, but my mother tells me that Seth went out. He said he was going to tell the whole neighbourhood that he had a son.”
This was undoubtedly a euphemism for going to the tavern and getting rip-roaring drunk, Lewis thought. It was the way these things usually went.
But Minta’s face was troubled as she went on. “He wasn’t there in the morning when I woke up, and he hadn’t been there all night. He finally came in near noon and Mother asked him where he’d been. He said he went to sit down by the bay for a while and fell asleep.
“Had he been drinking, do you think?”
“I don’t think so. He never drinks. The thing is,” she went on, “I don’t know for sure where he was or what he was doing. And then when Rachel was found, and the constable asked us about Seth’s whereabouts that night, we all lied. We said he’d been with us.” She began to weep a little. “I don’t even know what I’m suggesting, Mr. Lewis. I don’t see how Seth could have had anything to do with Rachel’s death, so it’s not as if we were protecting him that way or anything. I don’t even know why I said what I said. It just seemed easier at the time, but now it lies sorely on my heart. Please tell me what I should do.”
Lewis thought for a moment. A night and half a day would have been ample time for the burly blacksmith to ride from his in-laws’ house to Demorestville and back. The question, as Minta realized, was why on earth would he? There was no reason for Seth to do anything to Rachel. Quite the opposite: he and Minta would have been counting on her to help with the child.
Finally he said, “You’ve confessed to me now, and the Lord will take that into consideration. Rest easy and leave this with me. I agree that it’s unlikely that Seth had any hand in Rachel’s death, and there certainly is no point telling the authorities. They won’t do anything anyway, now that the coroner’s jury has ruled.”
The woman looked relieved.
“Just one thing, Minta. When Rachel was found she had a book in her lap. Do you know what became of it?”
She looked confused. “Oh, I’m not sure. It might still be at the house. I don’t think anyone took it away.”
“Do you think you could find it for me?”
“Yes, of course. But why do you want it?”
“I just want to look at it, that’s all. And then I’ll return it to you. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, but you’ve presented me with a bit of a puzzlement, and I’d like to resolve it if I can. At the very least, it would help you set your mind at rest.” Another misdirection. They were piling up on him, lie upon lie. He could hardly take Minta to task for the same transgression.
The Jessup’s rented house was tiny, just two rooms, but in perfect order and as clean a place as Lewis had ever seen. Constable Woodcock said that Rachel had gone to bed fully dressed, with even her boots on. Seeing the immaculate condition of Minta’s kitchen, he thought it improbable that anyone within her influence would ever dream of doing such a thing. In his experience, cleanliness was a habit that spread.
Minta beamed when he remarked on the pleasant home she had made. “It’s so small, it’s hard sometimes to keep it tidy. Seth hopes to be able to buy Mr. Chrysler’s business soon and set up on his own. There’s a house comes with the smithy, so we’ll have more room then.”
She deposited Henry in the wooden cradle near the stove and disappeared into the second room. She returned with a wooden box. “These are Rachel’s things,” she said, setting it on the table. “Go on — look through it if you like. I have no idea what to do with any of it, except to keep it in memory of her.”
There were pitifully few things in the box: Rachel’s faded everyday dress and apron — she would have been buried in her Sunday dress of course; the little wildflower painting that Willett Caddick had presented to her; a raggedy doll with a wooden head. This last item brought tears to his eyes. It was obviously a relic from her short childhood, something she had treasured and saved. It made him realize how young she had been. And finally, in the corner, a small book with a red cover. He opened it — The Book of Proverbs. The inscription was there, just as the constable had said, in a fine sloping hand. TO RACHEL, WITH MY FONDEST REGARDS. There was no signature to indicate from where the regards might have originated. He thumbed the pages carefully and was rewarded when the bible fell open at a page marked by a steel pin. In this book, each chapter of the Proverbs was set off by itself, so there was no mistaking that it was Chapter Five that had been open when she died, the chapter that contained a warning against seductive women: “For her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold in hell.”
It was a strange passage for a young girl to be studying, although he knew plenty who read the Bible cover to cover on a regular basis. There was no indication of any particular passage in the chapter having been marked, no clue to tell him what Rachel’s state of mind might have been at the time, nor any clue that would lead him to anyone else’s involvement. He wouldn’t have thought it significant in any way if he hadn’t seen an identical book opened to the very same spot in the lap of another — identical, except for the inscription.
Who had given it to her? Was it the same person who had killed her? And if so, why would he leave it behind, in such an obvious place, sure to be found and looked at?
He couldn’t rid himself of the notion that it had been his son-in-law Francis Renwell. Too many things were the same; both girls had died with marks on their necks, the same strange artifacts had been left with their bodies. He knew for a fact that Renwell was in the approximate vicinity — he had seen him lurking by the mill in Milford, hadn’t he? It was a long ride from there to Demorestville, but not an impossible one. Lewis did it on a regular basis himself. The only question was why? He could imagine all too well an argument between Renwell and Sarah, some point of dissension that had triggered a tragic violence, but what did Renwell have to do with Rachel? He wasn’t aware that they had ever laid eyes on each other.
He thought back to his discussion with Griffith Varney. He had mentioned Rachel’s death only as an afterthought. He had been full of news about the church, the argument that had erupted over its use, and the fire. With everyone’s attention focused on those events, anyone could have ridden into the village on the sly and ridden back out again without attracting attention.
So, too, on the night of Sarah’s death, the countryside had been in an uproar and oblivious to anything but the news that Mackenzie had risen and was engaged in a gun battle on the streets of Toronto. No time or inclination to notice anything else amiss, they had all been sure that a revolution had started and that their lives and livelihoods were in peril.
He had no idea if the two things were connected. Did the murderer use violent events to cover his crime, or did the events themselves somehow unleash the violence in the man? He felt himself grappling with this notion that madness could beget more madness. He should not be surprised. He knew that evil dwelt in the hearts of all men, but the complexity of this kind of connection was