Page 106 of The Frozen River

“When is North’s letter dated?”

He pulls it from the envelope. Holds it at arm’s length. Gives it a myopic squint. “October first. Why?”

The date is familiar. So I reach for my journal and flip back to October first, looking for a clue. And there it is, in black-and-white, written by my own hand.

Thursday, October 1—Clear except some showers. We had company this afternoon. Mr. Savage here, informs us that Mrs. Foster has sworn a rape on a number of men, among whom is Joseph North. Shocking indeed! I have been at home.

“That was the day that Rebecca Foster came forward with her accusation of rape.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think North was buying Joshua Burgess’s silence with this property.”

“So why kill him?”

It’s a valid question. One that I can’t answer with any degree of certainty. “I don’t know. Not yet at any rate.”

“All your scheming hasn’t produced a solution?”

“I do not scheme.”

“If that were the case, you wouldn’t have found yourself locked in the Pollard shed in the middle of the night. Or come home with a saddlebag that does not belong to you.” Ephraim leans against the wall. Gives me a stern look. “Do not think I have not forgotten simply because of”—he holds up the letters—“these.”

I take a deep breath. Puff it out. “I did think I was in trouble for a moment. It had gotten as cold as a well-digger’s arse in there, and I couldn’t decide whether or not to call for help.”

“Intrigued by the idea of freezing to death, were you?”

I glare at him. “It hadn’t gotten to that point. And besides, I had no way of explaining what I was doing there or why I had that damn saddlebag over my arm.”

“Well, I’m guessing you didn’t walk through the wall or dig your way out. So who rescued you?”

“Moses.” I laugh. “Amos had gone back in and flayed him in German for leaving the shed door unlocked. Didn’t take him long to figure out where I’d gone with that lantern. It did, however, take him a while to come for me. He had to wait until his father fell asleep.”

Ephraim runs his fingers through the hair at his temples. Shakes his head. Growls. “You will be the death of me, woman.”

“All’s well that ends well.”

He does not think it funny, this use of the Bard against him, and his eyes thin to slits of irritation.

“I would have got out. Eventually,” I say.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I see you have not solved our current predicament.”

“Which is?”

“How in the name of seven hells we are going to explain how you came to be in possession of that saddlebag.”

“No one is asking that particular question just yet.”

“They will. The moment we go public with these letters. Which we’ll have to do because, technically, we no longer have a legal right to live on this property.”

I am about to tell him that, by the time anyone thinks to ask that question, we’ll have figured out a way to answer. But that’s when Jonathan throws back the door to my workroom without knocking.

“Yes?” Ephraim asks.

Jonathan looks at his father with pity and dread. “Something has killed Percy.”

The wooden slats have been torn apart, and there is blood on the floor. A riot of feathers litter the mews. It is a grim scene, not much different from the block I use to butcher chickens.