The man replied sourly, “Who knows? They’ve no roots, they come and go as they please, traveling up and down the canals year after year.”
“Do many come through here?”
“More since the railroads came. Hard times, then. Some couldn’t pay for a boat and a house on shore. But that’s less space for cargo, isn’t it, and without a full load, they earn less. Gypsies.”
The railroads had come through decades ago. But old prejudices died hard. With a nod, Rutledge stepped out into the sunshine and walked on to where the black boat was moored.
It was handsome, if a little funereal. There was a painted rose by the well of the tiller, and lacy curtains at all the windows. Two had flower pots in them as well. It was hard to say whether this particular boat carried goods or passengers, but it appeared to ride high in the water, a sign that it was empty now. He walked the length, looking at the well in the bow. The man at the tiller would have to stand to see down the length of the craft and over the slightly raised prow.
The tow rope lay coiled neatly on the boards. It appeared to be dry, as if it hadn’t been used in several days. He turned, wondering where the horse was stabled when not in service, and saw one or two outbuildings beyond the cottages.
Ducks came running as he moved on around the basin, then lost interest as he ignored them and looked around at the cottages scattered about. For the most part they were modest and kept trim. He wondered where the children here went to school. In his brief survey, he hadn’t noticed a building large enough to be a school.
He turned and retraced his steps toward the Aqueduct. Closer to it, he realized that the trough of water and the towpath beside it could be no more than twelve feet wide. While the water, shimmering now in the sunlight, seemed suspended in air, the towpath on the eastern side appeared to be dangerously narrow. The closer he got to the edge, the longer the Aqueduct seemed to stretch before him. And then he was looking down at the green Llangollen Valley, fields and trees and the line of the river over a hundred feet below. In the distance upriver he could just pick out the roofs of Roddy’s village.
“’Ware.” Hamish’s keen hearing had picked up the approach of someone behind him, and Rutledge stepped away from the drop, turning to see who had followed him. He’d half expected it to be the shopkeeper, but it was a younger man, in his late thirties. He walked with a limp, but stopped at once as Rutledge turned. And stood there not six paces away.
“Careful,” he said in the rhythmic accent of the Welsh. “You’d not wish to fall all that way.”
“No.”
“First time here?” the man asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Impressive sight.”
Rutledge asked, “Live here, do you?”
“On the far side. Yes.”
“I thought you might be the owner of that handsome black narrowboat.”
The man grinned cheekily. “Me? Not likely.” And without another word, he set out across the towpath, walking jauntily, as if the height didn’t worry him. Rutledge watched him cross and then disappear on the southern end.
Making certain there was no one else coming up behind him—and no one about to cross from the other side—Rutledge himself stepped out onto the towpath. It was barely more than five and a half feet wide, with little or no protection against falling, he thought, keeping his gaze on the far end and walking steadily. Soon he was a quarter of the way across, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at the fields and trees and the dark line of the river below.
But that was dizzying, not the best of ideas, and he quickly brought his gaze back from the sheer drop and fixed it on his goal. The tow horses, he thought, must wear blinders to keep them firmly on the path. Or did they, like he himself, still sense that drop so close to them?
He cast another quick look down, regretting it almost at once.
How easy it would be to turn quickly and shove someone off the path!
Had the man screamed as he fell? Or had it been too sudden, the shock keeping him from crying out until it was almost too late?
The wonder was, he hadn’t taken his killer with him . . .
Rutledge’s mouth was dry as he reached the far end, and Hamish was hammering at him in the back of his mind. Trying to ignore the deep Scots voice, he continued into the village. It was more or less a mirror of the one he’d left. There was the line of the narrow waterway that carried on a short distance over solid ground before widening into a basin, and beyond the basin, the southern canal disappeared among a stand of trees. If there was an inn, he couldn’t see it. And then the sound of hooves caught his attention. Looking up, toward the basin, he realized there were several narrowboats approaching from the south, just coming into view. They were in line, and he counted four of them, the horses plodding steadily, heads down, in his direction. The horses pricked up their ears as the basin came into view, and he thought they must know the routine, a brief stop before the crossing. One of the men leading them called out, and a woman appeared at the door of a cottage on the far side of it.
He began to walk toward the boats. There was an older man with a thin gray beard squatting close by the towpath, a long hemp rope spread out by him. He appeared to be inspecting it inch by inch.
When he was near enough to the man, Rutledge called pleasantly, as if he were only a chance visitor, “Hallo. Remarkable place, this. Live here, do you?”
“Aye.” The response was cautious. And he didn’t look up after the first swift glance Rutledge’s way, his attention on the rope.
“I couldn’t help but wonder. What’s it like here in a storm? Or in winter? Surely the horses can’t make that crossing if it’s icy? Or cold enough for the water to start to freeze?”
The man stared up at him now. “Some days it’s shut down. Aye.”
“I just walked across myself. I don’t fancy walking back,” he said with a rueful smile. “Too damned narrow for my taste. Even in such good weather. Do you suppose one of those boats will let me step on board?”
The man said, curiosity and something else in his gaze, “English, are you?”
“Yes. I’ve never been here before.” He launched into the story he’d told the shopkeeper, about the friend he was meeting. “Have you seen him about, by any chance? I don’t want to miss him, after coming all this way.”
The man shook his head. “Doubt he’s been over here.”
“Are you sure? I’d like to find him.”
“If he was on one of the passing boats, I’d not have noticed him.”
“Why? Would he have been inside, not sitting in the bow?”
“Not inside, if she carried cargo.”
“Surely you must know most of the men at the tiller. And those leading the horses. They must come and go through here often enough.”
The man dropped his gaze to the rope again, moving it slowly but steadily through his fingers. “Not always. Mostly I know the narrowboats.”
It was a close community of men who made their living on or from the waterway. Rutledge could see that they weren’t likely to give a stranger any more information than was necessary. Nor did he think they would be likely to help an English policeman, if he’d shown his identification instead.
But he said, as he looked back toward the crossing, “That’s a dangerous place. Ever have accidents there?”