“Elegant piece of work, isn’t it?”
“That it is.” Holcomb shaded his eyes as a shout echoed from above, and another voice answered it.
“What if our man’s killer waited to make his move until he was certain his victim would go into the river? Where the body had a good chance of being carried away downstream, possibly never found?” Rutledge asked thoughtfully. “If he did, it speaks of premeditation, not an argument that got out of hand. It’s a place to start.”
“A different world up there,” the Constable agreed darkly. “Not one I know.”
3
Early the next morning, Rutledge left the village and made his way along back roads toward the top of the Aqueduct. The rain had gone, as Constable Holcomb had foretold, leaving a bright day with a bit of a breeze.
When he reached the head of the northern cliff, he felt an even greater appreciation for the stunning piece of engineering that Telford had created in 1805. It was still an amazing construction. His godfather, the architect, had always claimed that Thomas Telford was a man before his time, and Rutledge had no difficulty in believing that here.
A community of sorts had grown up where the engineers and workmen had put up their temporary lodgings in the 1800s, but now the waterway belonged to the narrowboat men. Leaving his motorcar under some trees where the main canal coming down from the north broadened into a basin, Rutledge walked past a scattering of cottages, and then where the basin narrowed again, he found shops that catered to them as well as to craft passing through.
There was an odd sense of isolation here. He’d come through Trefor, just to the north, where there was some industry, and even a railway station, although it had been closed until the next train was due. Here it felt as if life were suspended until the next narrowboats passed along the canal and over the Aqueduct. It was almost unnaturally quiet, no children running about, no wives gossiping along the path, no dogs barking as he went by. Holcomb had been right. It was a different world.
Rutledge walked into one of the smaller shops, and was surprised to find it too all but empty.
Nodding to the man behind the display of goods, restocking a handful of tins, he asked for a cup of tea.
“Any table you like,” the man replied, and Rutledge chose one by the front window, looking out on the waterway as it narrowed toward the crossing. Then he turned for a better view of the way he’d come in.
As he’d left his motorcar he’d noticed the single narrowboat, long, high in the water, and barely six feet wide, tied up in the basin. It was a sleek black with polished brass fittings. In the sunlight dappling the dark water, it had looked freshly painted. He could observe it now. He hadn’t wanted to appear unduly interested in it or attract attention to himself until he’d got a better feeling for this place.
The man came over with his tea and set the cup down. Noticing the direction of Rutledge’s gaze, he said, “My cousin’s boat.”
“Indeed? Does he live on it?” he asked casually.
“No, his cottage is just over there.” He gestured to a stand of trees on the far side of the basin. But his tone of voice indicated an affront, as if Rutledge had insulted his cousin.
“I don’t know much about narrowboats,” Rutledge said affably, as if he hadn’t noticed. “I thought families usually lived on board.”
“Those that do are no better than gypsies,” the man retorted.
“Are they? I hadn’t known.” He poured milk into his cup, then added, “How long are the boats?”
“Seventy-two feet, most of them. If they’re to navigate some of the canals and many of the locks, they can’t be any longer. Even so, they must fit sideways into some of the older locks.”
Rutledge turned toward the Aqueduct. “It’s damned narrow, out there,” he said. “Are all the aqueducts like that?”
“I expect they are. One boat at a time, going or coming. And just enough room beside the boat for the horse pulling the rope and the man walking him.”
“What do they carry, most of the time?”
“Whatever’s called for. Aggregate. Slate. Goods. Quarry stone. Brick. Even people, sometimes. During the war, now, there were nearly five hundred boats using this canal. Did my dad’s heart good to see them, he said. He was a narrowboat man. I never was. My mother’s father kept the shop, and I took over from him.”
“Do many visitors come to watch the boats cross over?”
“Sometimes in the summer, there will be a dozen or so about. Wanting a float across, some of them. As if these were pleasure boats.”
“This time of year?”
“You’re the first this week.” He studied Rutledge. “What brings you here?”
“I was expecting to meet a friend.”
There was a wariness now in the man’s manner. “Not this side of the crossing. I’ve heard of no strangers about.”
But Rutledge hadn’t told him whether the friend was local or an outsider.
“You might remember him if you had seen him. Short, just over five feet tall. Good shoulders. Light brown hair, a strong nose.” It was the best description he could offer.
The shopkeeper shook his head. “He never came in here.” There was a firmness now in the denial. Cutting off further questions.
Was that really so? Or only a part of the truth? If the victim hadn’t come in—had he been somewhere outside? On one of the boats that had come through?
Reserving judgment, Rutledge said, “Are you sure of that? I was held up in Shrewsbury for several days. I’d not like to think I’d missed him.” He stirred his tea, staring out now at the black narrowboat. The problem was, he himself was in the dark about the victim’s movements. Shrugging slightly, he added, “Is there an inn, this side of the Aqueduct? Somewhere he might have stayed? Or left a message?”
The shopkeeper was frowning now. “Never been a call for one. The men coming through on the narrowboats sleep aboard.”
“What about the far side?”
“The far side?” The shopkeeper stared at him, as if he’d asked about the far side of the moon.
“I don’t relish the long drive around. How do I cross the Aqueduct to the southern end?”
“By the towpath.”
“Any chance of taking one of the narrowboats across? I don’t fancy walking. Heights trouble me.”
“You’ll have to speak to one of the owners. They don’t as a rule care for passengers. Not when there’s goods aboard. Sometimes if they’re empty.” He glanced at Rutledge’s cup. “Finished, are you?”
Rutledge rose and followed him to the counter, where he paid for the tea. But at the door he paused. “I’m curious. Why do you say the narrowboats with families living aboard are no better than gypsies? Are they a thieving lot? Should I be wary of them?”
“They’re ignorant. Illiterate. No schooling for themselves, nor for the little ones. Families crowded into cabins hardly big enough for the man at the tiller. Sleeping there, cooking there. Born there as often as not, and dying there too. Poor and dirty—you can smell the boats as they pass.”
Rutledge thought he was exaggerating. “But not thieving, no police records, surely.”