“I don’t understand.”
“I’m here in Crowley not only to be sure of his identification, but to begin the search for answers surrounding his death. It’s very likely, given the circumstances, that Milford was murdered.”
5
Nan Blake had been shocked by the suggestion that Sam Milford had been a victim of murder. She told him roundly that Sam wasn’t a troublemaker, he wasn’t the sort of man to stir up people or cause problems. “Donald is the opposite, he doesn’t think, he brings trouble down on himself. That’s why Sam went to Shrewsbury instead.”
“Did you expect him to be gone this long?”
“Sometimes—it’s hard when you must beg for help. For faith in the pub when there’s so little hope left. The longer he was away, the more we worried that this time he wouldn’t find the money we need. We thought—we thought no one was willing to listen, and he was still trying. It would be like Sam, not to give up. Not to come back with nothing.” She found her handkerchief and blew her nose. “He couldn’t have been murdered. He came through the war, for God’s sake, with only a few cracked ribs to show for it. He didn’t know anyone in Wales. I don’t understand why he was even there.”
“Where would he stay, when he went to Shrewsbury?”
She named a small, inexpensive hotel near the Abbey. “It’s all he could afford. We could afford,” she amended.
“How long did he expect to be in Shrewsbury?”
“As long as necessary, he said. I’ve told you, sometimes it takes time, persuading people to listen when they only want what’s owed them. I went once, just before Sam and Donald were demobbed. And I got nowhere, because no one was willing to give money to a woman. ‘This isn’t London, you know,’” she ended, mimicking a banker or the owner of a firm. “We were so grateful when Donald came home, and then Sam followed him six weeks later. It was a miracle, having both of them come safely home. Now this.”
“I gather neither Blake nor Milford is from Crowley.”
“Donald is from Ludlow. Sam grew up in Chester. He came to Shropshire to look at a bit of property his parents had left him. Ruth was in Shrewsbury to take care of some business for her father. This was in 1912. Both of them had to sit and wait for over an hour in the solicitor’s office until he’d finished speaking to another client. They talked, and after the solicitor had seen the other man out and was apologizing for the delay, Sam asked him to introduce them. Then he turned to Ruth and asked if she’d have tea with him afterward. It was a good match.”
Nan went away soon after, leaving him to finish his now-cold breakfast in peace, telling Rutledge that she must talk to her husband. “I’ve never known anyone who was murdered. I don’t quite know how to think about Sam being killed.”
He spent the rest of the morning walking through Crowley, speaking to the other residents, moving from house to house, keeping his questions simple.
Word hadn’t spread yet that Sam Milford was dead, much less murdered. The Blakes apparently hadn’t told anyone else, and Ruth Milford was still in a drugged sleep.
As he was about to begin with the nearest cottage, Hamish said, “It’s possible it was of a purpose, gie’ing her yon drugs.”
“We’ll know the answer to that soon enough. Either she wakes by noon, of her own accord, or you are right, the Blakes have a reason to keep her where I can’t question her.”
A family by the name of Baker lived in the first cottage he visited, an older man and his wife in the next, and a widow in the third. He could see how difficult life must be for these people, whom progress had left behind. Most didn’t have the money to move on, like the Blakes, while others clung to the only world they knew, waiting for a miracle.
They had known that Milford had gone to Shrewsbury—they had seen him leave with Blake in the dogcart—and they were shrewd enough to guess why such a trip was necessary. As for the length of time Milford had been gone, they had put it down to difficulties he’d encountered, for as Mr. Baker had bitterly informed Rutledge, “If the mines hadn’t begun to run out of lead, none of this would have happened. The bankers and the brewers, they’d be at the door to welcome you and ask how much you needed. Now it’s just the opposite, they don’t want to talk to you. But Sam was never one to give up, was he?”
They professed surprise that something had happened to him. It was clear that they liked the man, and everyone had asked how Ruthie was holding up under the news of his death.
Rutledge answered their questions but quickly realized that no one in Crowley held a grudge against Milford. If anything, his return from the war had offered hope. He had been in a way a natural leader, in a hamlet where no one knew how to take the lead.
“You never noticed how short he was, once you got used to it,” another man told Rutledge. “There was something about him, a strength. You knew you could trust him.”
And a woman had said, “He was shorter than Ruthie, you know. But he was more of a man than her cousin’s husband, wasn’t he? He was the best thing that could have happened to her, Sam was. I don’t know how she will go on without him.”
Which made it all the more a mystery why Sam Milford had been in Wales instead of pleading his case in Shrewsbury. As far as anyone knew, he had neither family nor connections over the border.
By the time he’d reached the last cottage but one, Rutledge had already realized that his next course of action was to trace Milford’s movements in Shrewsbury. And then a Mrs. Esterly, a widow, came to the door, peered up at him over her spectacles, and said, “I’ve watched you making your way here. And I’m curious to know why. Do come in, young man. The parlor is just there.”
It was as feminine as a lady’s boudoir. Lace-edged curtains, delicate china figurines on every flat surface, fringed shawls in pastel colors spread over every piece of furniture.
As soon as Rutledge had introduced himself, Mrs. Esterly gave him no opportunity to say more, leaping in with her own eager questions.
“Will is my nephew. I’ve heard about poor Sam. Such a tragedy. Tell me, will Ruth stay in Crowley, now, do you think? Keep The Pit and The Pony open?”
“I don’t think she’s in any frame of mind to think about the future,” he answered.
“Well, even if she tries, she’s bound to lose it. I don’t see how she can manage on her own. The poor dear. Life hasn’t been kind to her. And Nan will surely persuade her to give up the struggle. Ruth will miss The Pit and The Pony. And what will the rest of us do?”
He made some polite answer, but Mrs. Esterly went on asking questions, not always giving him an opportunity to respond. Lonely and alone, she was making the most of her audience, even offering him tea to keep him there a little longer when she feared he was about to leave.
Refusing the offer as courteously as he could, he was looking for an opening to thank her for helping in his inquiries when a name popped up in her rambling monologue that caught his attention.
“Of course, she hasn’t been the same since that business about Tildy,” Mrs. Esterly was saying, changing directions. “Such a tragedy. I’ve never understood the whole story. But I’ve heard from Mrs. Warren that Ruth blames herself. Although I can’t see how. It wasn’t her doing, was it?”