Page 57 of Corpse in the Canal

“I can’t see any houses. Do people live there?”

“Oh yes. Other side of that wood. Only a few cottages, mind—a couple of Larchford tenants and some laborers.”

“Are there are other bridges?” Solomon asked.

“Not till you get to Channing,” Wills replied.

“And in the other direction?”

“About four miles or so beyond the Larchford Bridge.”

“We’ll search the other side,” Solomon said. “Good luck with the dredging.”

Wills grunted. “Oh, the stray horse Nelson kept at Dare Hall stables? It is the one Percy got at his last inn stop. It seems to have wandered into the paddock on its own. Either Percy fell off and it bolted, or he abandoned it somewhere.”

Wills jumped back on board the barge, while Solomon and Constance crossed the bridge, both deep in thought.

“It’s quite a wide expanse,” Solomon commented. “Why don’t I cover the wooded area and you take the stretch nearer the canal?”

Constance nodded agreement. He had the feeling her attention was elsewhere, and hoped that it was not his past with Adelaide. There was certainly something she was not saying to him, and he had the feeling she needed to. Neither of them wanted to go back to the early days of dancing around each other and hiding their own emotions. Solving mysteries had brought them together. He refused to allow this mystery to drive them apart. He would find a way.

Or she would.

At the edge of the wood, he quickly found a stick long enough to beat at the grass and the bushes, in search of anything untoward—signs of scuffle, blood, or a pistol. The wood was a surprisingly dense but for a narrow strip dividing the canal from fields beyond.

He had been systematically searching the woods for probably a quarter of an hour when a sudden crashing of undergrowth made him spin around. A dog of very mixed parentage stopped in its tracks and stared at him.

“Here, Shep,” a man growled, materializing beside the dog. He was dressed like a farm laborer in work clothes, a shapeless jacket hanging from his wiry shoulders. He could have been forty or fifty years old.

“Good day,” Solomon said politely.

The laborer touched his cap. “G’day, sir. You looking for something?”

“Yes,” Solomon said. “Anything to identify who killed Percival Harvey from Channing House.”

The laborer frowned and nodded. “Terrible thing. Never heard of such doings in these parts. Not since the days of the highwaymen, anyway.”

“Did you know young Mr. Harvey?” Solomon asked.

“By sight. See him in the Duke’s Arms now and again. Or out shooting rabbits, with a pistol, the silly so—young gentleman,” he finished, not very convincingly.

“I don’t suppose you saw him out here last Thursday afternoon, did you?”

The laborer scratched his head in thought. “Thursday? M’wife goes to market on a Thursday.”

“Ah. So you went with her,” Solomon said, disappointed if not surprised.

“Oh no,” the laborer said. “Just getting the days clear in me head. Harvest’s in, so work is scarce round about now. Me and the dog went for a walk—this way, as usual. Cross the bridge at Larchford and walk into Channing for a pint at the Duke.”

Since the thread seemed to have been lost, Solomon tried again. “Did you see Percy Harvey that afternoon? Around here or in Channing?”

“Can’t say I did,” the man said. It was somehow inevitable. No one seemed to have seen Percy until his body was fished out of the lock. As if sensing Solomon’s frustration, the man tried to help. “Saw Mrs. Harvey, though.”

Solomon blinked. “You saw Mrs. Harvey last Thursday afternoon? Where?”

“Must have been round about here.”

“What was she doing?” Solomon asked.