Page 61 of Corpse in the Canal

“What good will that do?” Jenny demanded. “Won’t bring him back, will it? Besides, ain’t that what Constable Wills is for?”

“He’s too busy dredging all the rubbish out the canal,” Maisie said derisively.

Etta eased open the front door and slipped outside. She hurried away down the drive on foot, for she dared not wait for the carriage in case Richard saw her and sent her back to bed. She walked briskly down the drive and into town.

She was a little disappointed not to meet anyone en route, for the slightest, most mundane conversation stopped her thinking just for a moment or two, slowed the creeping, terrible shame. The keys for the valise and the broken trunk were now inside her glove, and she fingered them, reluctant to drop them along the roadway in case the incredibly inquisitive Greys found them during their search. Stupidly, she even felt afraid that Wills would find them if she dropped them in the canal.

When she reached Channing, she finally glimpsed friends. Sir Felix Everett had stopped in the high street to converse with Penelope Owens and Miss Ramsden the schoolteacher. Etta glanced hastily around in case Penelope’s father was close by—she didn’t want the doctor sending her home just yet, let alone taking her there.

The trio broke off as soon as she advanced toward them. They all smiled and Sir Felix, always the perfect gentleman, tipped his hat to her.

“Mrs. Harvey, good afternoon,” he said. “Perhaps I might escort you on your errands?”

“Oh, no, thank you, sir. To be perfectly honest, I have none. I merely felt the need of some fresh air and exercise and find I have walked a little farther than I meant to.”

“Allow me to present my condolences on your terrible loss, ma’am,” Miss Ramsden twittered. “I was never more shocked in my life.”

“Thank you. You are very kind,” Etta replied, trying not to sound too mechanical in her response—though, really, how many proper responses were there? The civilized etiquette of grief was suffocating.

“Is there any news from Mr. and Mrs. Grey?” Penelope asked. She could not quite keep the indignation from her pleasant face, and Etta wondered how the investigators had offended her.

“Oh, I believe they are still searching along the canal banks,” Etta said vaguely, recalling the maids’ gossip as she left.

“They called on Sir Felix this morning, prying—”

“Not prying, Miss Owens,” Sir Felix said mildly.

“I would have thought they would confine their investigations to the lower orders,” Miss Ramsden said in shocked tones. “To strangers in town. There’s a very eccentric-looking man at the inn, for example.”

So the whole town knew about Richard’s investigators. There would be no keeping the business quiet. Etta was surprised to find she didn’t care.

“We must pray the culprit is found quickly,” Penelope said.

Guilt and blackness swarmed over Etta once more. Nothing could bring her son back. Nothing…

“I must go,” she said on a gasp. “Goodbye!” She got away from them, focusing desperately on her mission.

*

Constance and Solomon had wandered through the poorer parts of town, partly to get a better feel for the place, and partly because they had caught sight of Dr. Owens and decided to follow him in the hope of a word. On the way, they asked a few questions of passersby, shopkeepers, and loungers at alehouses. None of them admitted to knowing Percy. But then, the rumors of his death must have reached here, too.

“Likes of him never come down here,” said a rough individual outside an alehouse with no signs of its purpose or even of a welcome, only the open door allowing a glimpse of two rickety tables and a few stools and mugs within. The rough individual smelled very strongly of stale beer and tobacco, as if his clothes had been soaked in the mixture. Constance shifted slightly to avoid his breath. “You want to ask at the Duke’s Arms.”

“Thank you,” Constance said politely, for Solomon was already tugging her onward. She was about to demand, with some asperity, about the hurry when he squeezed her hand between his elbow and his body.

“Straight ahead,” he murmured.

Beyond the dirty children playing in the street, and an old man walking with a tired donkey weighed down with a few sticks of furniture, was an upright lady in a black cloak and hat. She stood out like a jewel among gravel. Even disguised by the billowing cloak, she looked thin and walked very fast.

Constance was startled. “Is that…?”

“It looks like her to me.”

They sped up. “Where did she come from?” Constance asked.

“She just rounded that corner.”

And appeared to be hurrying back in the direction of the high street and the market square. Where on earth had she been, and why? They were closer now, and from the quick, birdlike turns of her head, they could clearly see that it was indeed Mrs. Harvey.