at him. ‘Why would I tell you? What are you to me? You offered me drinks last night to get me talking. You think I am dumb like they all do. But they gave you a soaking, yes, they did. For all your nosy questioning.’
The childish glee in his voice made Alkmene smile, but also put a shiver on her spine. This man was mentally twisted. Or at least he lived in a world of his own, holding his version of the past close to his chest like a sacred thing. Anyone who tried to interfere with it did so at his own risk.
She said carefully, ‘The woman at the inn is very unfriendly to strangers and she even said we should go away again. Why?’
Wally looked at her with his small red-rimmed eyes. ‘Why, she is Mary’s sister. Did you not know?’
Alkmene shook her head. She had not been able to guess the woman’s age correctly as her red hair had seemed so fiery still, without a trace of grey. She didn’t seem old enough to be the sister of a woman who already had a grown son. The mysterious young man, from the theatre. Returned from the dead…
Wally continued in a rush, ‘She also hates me for talking about Mary, keeping her memory alive. She would rather act like she had never existed. And I know why. She never liked her; she hated her. Because Mary was pretty and Mary was bright and all the men looked at Mary and never at her. She made Mary do all the work at home; she forced her to scrub floors so her pretty hands got red and rough. She made her do the cooking, so she would burn her fingers and cry. She would make her do the laundry so she had to stand hunched over the washing board and her back would ache. She told me oh so many times.’
Wally clenched his hands into fists. ‘They all treated her wrong. And they should remember her, remember what they did, how they did not want her to live and be happy. They are all to blame for her death. Not me. I cared for her.’ He lifted his pale eyes to look at Jake. ‘I loved her.’
Jake nodded. ‘We understand.’
Wally stood a moment, fidgeting with his hands. Then he turned away and ran off, with his strange gait.
Jake did not go after him. He looked at Alkmene and sighed. ‘So we have confirmation here of everything Pemboldt told us. There was a Mary Sullivan, she was married to Silas Norwhich’s brother and she was pregnant with his child. She vanished into the marshlands, and Wally has been telling people ever since that she is dead. But he himself doesn’t know for sure. Or he knows something he doesn’t want to tell.’
‘He told Fitzroy Walker that she was dead,’ Alkmene said.
The wind was strong upon the moor, and she untied the scarf around her neck and put it over her head, tied it with a knot under her chin. The material made a soft rustling sound as the wind played with it. ‘He showed the place where it happened and all. I bet Walker didn’t get any cooperation elsewhere like we experienced yesterday and he believed Wally. He wanted to believe it badly, so his plans for Evelyn Steinbeck would succeed. The real heir was dead, buried in the marshes here, and the fake heiress could be produced and could cash in and then deliver to him, via the marriage. That’s why he was rubbing his hands in glee when he saw the spot.’
Jake nodded. He stared at the place Wally had indicated. ‘It is possible to get through moor or marshland unharmed if you know the tracks. If her father was indeed familiar with them all for his profession, she could have run off and lived on, some place. But how? She probably had no money.’
‘Wally suggested her lover had given her gifts. Maybe she sold those off? Maybe she found another man who took her in? Wally made it sound like she was very pretty. Combined with vulnerability, she might have enticed a man to care for her.’
‘You make it sound like something dirty,’ Jake observed with a smile.
Alkmene shrugged. ‘I never like to use my looks, that’s all.’
The wind pulled at her scarf, and suddenly the silk slipped off her hair and the scarf flew off on the gust, across the heather and dirt, flapping like it was resisting its abduction.
‘Hey!’ Alkmene called.
Jake rushed after it, jumping over clumps of heather.
‘Be careful!’ Alkmene called. ‘You could step into marshland.’
Jake didn’t seem to hear or care. He ran on, leaping and bounding like a horse in full flight, until he could pluck the scarf out of the air. Holding it up, he waved it at her like a banner. ‘Saved!’
She waved back, calling again, ‘Careful! You don’t know how unstable it is.’
Jake nodded and began to pick his way back, trying his footing before each step. It took him much longer to get back than it had taken him to catch the scarf. Alkmene stood hands on hips, watching his progress with her head tilted.
At last he was on the path again. She reached out for the scarf, but he shook his head and folded it and put it in his pocket. ‘I don’t intend to chase it again. You can have it back in the village.’
Before she could protest he looked around them. ‘Not much else we can do here. We know now Fitzroy Walker has been here and left, assured there was no real heir to fear. But he was wrong. There was. At least if the young man who appeared at the theatre had any claim.’
‘He knew of Cunningham.’ Alkmene frowned. ‘He might even have had a birth certificate that he showed Silas Norwhich right before he died.’
Jake nodded. ‘But why kill Norwhich?’
‘If he indeed killed him.’ Alkmene turned her back on the cold wind and gestured to the village. ‘We had better return and think it over with some coffee and apple pie. I think I smelled something baking before we left.’
Jake shook his head. ‘It is a miracle to me that someone with such a healthy appetite can have such a slim figure.’
Alkmene cast him an appraising look. Was he criticizing her figure or complimenting her on it?
If she could not even tell which was which…
Shaking her head to herself, she began to walk back across the seemingly endless moor.
By the time they were back at the inn of the hunted boar, the church tower struck one, and Alkmene’s stomach was growling. She wanted a big slice of apple pie, preferably with whipped cream, and coffee.
Or no, hot chocolate.
She already savoured the taste on her tongue.
But as they came in, the innkeeper himself was behind the reception desk, gesturing at them with a cream-coloured envelope in his hand. ‘This message has been delivered here for you, sir.’
Jake took it and studied it. ‘By whom?’
The man shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I was in the back tending to some chores and when I came back here, it was lying on the desk.’
Jake turned the envelope over but there was no sender recorded on it. It just read Mr Jake Dubois on the front in print letters that could disguise a man or woman’s handwriting.
Jake thanked the innkeeper and walked
