Page 66 of Corpse in the Canal

George West meandered home from the Duke’s Arms, annoyed by his own confusion. A pint less might have better for him, but he could hardly put it back now. The trouble was, he had to make a happy show in the taproom of celebrating the imminent birth of his first child, while he knew damn well everyone doubted the baby was his.

That was partly his own fault, of course. By bruising Daphne so obviously, he’d confirmed the local rumors of her affair with Percy bloody Harvey. Since then, Daphne had explained to him why the child couldn’t be Percy’s, and he believed her, both because it made sense and because Daphne never lied—not to him, at any rate.

He could smell dinner—mouth-wateringly delicious—before he even opened the back door and entered the kitchen. Daphne was removing a large pot from the oven. The table was already set for two.

“Just in time,” she said. “Wash. Sit.”

He dunked his hands in the sink, scrubbed half-heartedly, and dried them. Not for the first time, he recognized his good fortune in Daphne. She could tell to the ounce how much he’d had to drink at the Duke, just by the way he walked, but she never scolded, never complained that he was late, just put his dinner in front of him, let him eat and sleep it off. Generally, it was George who apologized the next day.

The unexpected wave of tenderness took him by surprise, and he didn’t like how weak it made him feel. So he sat down at the table and growled, “They were there again.”

“Who was where?” she asked, serving the divine-smelling stew onto plates.

“Those nosy Greys from Channing House.”

“In the taproom?” Daphne said in surprise.

“Of course not in the bloody taproom! But at the inn, having tea. There’s two of ’em, you know.”

“Yes, there usually is in a married couple.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Don’t be smart. I mean two of him. Must be a brother or something. I thought I was seeing double till I realized they wore different clothes. The double stays at the inn, watching people, nosing about, and reporting back to their nibses.”

“You don’t know that. I sort of like her. And he’s not so hard to look at it.”

She did that deliberately, of course, showing him that she looked, she noticed. It made Percy Harvey so much less. He was probably mad to believe she wouldn’t ever stray again, but he did.

“So what did you tell her?” he demanded. “Your high-and-mighty new friend?”

She set his plate in front of him. “That you were with me all morning at the market and then at home with me. That you opened the gates for Fred’s boat that afternoon.”

“And you told them about the pistol. He asked me about it.”

“Other people know about the pistol,” she said, sitting at her own place and picking up her fork. “You’d better just pray other people don’t also know you weren’t at home at all on Thursday afternoon.”

He forked a mouthful of hot stew into his mouth. It tasted like it smelled, damned good. “No one saw me.”

“Fred Baines certainly didn’t,” she retorted. “Let’s hope he don’t come back and blab that I worked the lock for him, not you.”

George made a rude noise with his mouth full. It should have made her laugh or tell him off, depending on her mood. But she didn’t seem to notice. He heard her intake of breath.

“You didn’t shoot Percy, did you, George?”

He stabbed viciously at the stew. “Who cares who shot him? Everyone’s glad he’s dead.”

*

Constance swung around, the pistol still clutched in her hand. Etta Harvey stood there, her white face clutched in her trembling hands. She let out a moan.

“Oh, no, what have you done? What have you done? Put it away!”

Since it was so clearly distressing her, Constance dropped it back into the carpetbag, and bundled the dress on top of it.

“It was safe up here,” Etta railed. “I’d have forgotten in time. No one has any reason to come up here, no use for…” She trailed off into another desperate moan.

Constance went to her, instinctively putting her arms around the distraught woman. For a moment, Etta remained rigid in her hold, and then, as tears squeezed from her eyes, she sagged.

Constance held her, meeting Solomon’s gaze over her shoulder. After a few moments, she murmured soothingly, “There, there. I’m so sorry to upset you further, but you must see that we have to know. Is that Percy’s gun?”