After Alice Fell(45)

There’s a flash of movement from the turn to the house: Toby careens around the hedge and rushes toward us. “Auntie.”

I push his hands away when he tries to grab on to me. “Leave us, Toby.”

“Not now.” Lionel takes a breath and leans down. “Go get a treat from Saoirse.”

“Do what your father says.”

The boy flinches, as if I’ve cuffed his ear. When I reach in apology, he smacks at the top of my hands.

“Toby. Enough.” Lionel drops the carpetbag and lifts him under the arms. His legs dangle, socks slipped to his ankles. He squirms and kicks, red cheeked and thin mouthed.

“Do something with him.” I brush past them and make my way to the front door.

“Where are you going?” He sets Toby down and follows me. His shoulder bumps into mine as he elbows past me in the hall, blocking my way. “You lied to Cathy. You said you were going to see a friend.”

“Move.”

“I told you not to—”

“I want you to see something.” I shove him away, scramble around the chairs in his office, then grapple in my bag for Alice’s book. “This is where we sent her, Lionel. We sent her to her death. You and me.” I circle the desk, pushing bills and diagrams to the side, then set her notebook on the leather. “Someone was watching her. And Kitty said someone was on the roof. Alice turned around and—”

“You need to settle down.”

“I won’t.”

There’s a quick movement; Toby slinks around the doorframe and plasters himself to the wall. Lionel sees him. He takes a step back, palm out, as if he’s keeping his son from me. “You’re scaring the boy.”

Cathy is now in the room. “I can hear you all the way in the sewing room.”

“It’s not just negligence, Lionel. She knew about another woman who . . . She sent a complaint to the constable. So at least give me the courtesy of looking at this.”

He lifts his hands and looks over my head at Cathy. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

“You need to stop, Marion,” Cathy says. “You’re sounding like her.”

“They’re lying.” I pound my fist to my thigh. “Listen to me.”

“Get Toby out of here,” Lionel says.

Cathy takes the boy by the hand and leads him back to the hall. Bends to whisper something in his ear. Pats his head. Then she closes the door and leans against it. “Marion.”

“She knew she was going to die.”

She presses her lips together, bites the inside of the lower one. “Where would you get an idea like that?”

“I met with Kitty Swain.” I turn to Lionel. “But I think your wife told you that; she read my letter—you read my letter—which is why you met me so rudely at the coach.”

Lionel’s gaze flicks to Cathy, then he startles when I thump my fist to the book. “Here. Read it.”

He pinches a corner and opens it. Not to the first page, but to the page with the cat. His cheeks pale. He turns another page. Back to the first.

“She knew she was going to die.” I stab my finger to the page. “Look.” Then I twist the book around, flip back to the picture of the box with the lock on at the temple. “Look. The bruises she had were directly from this device. I’m sure of it. This—it is murder. Maybe she saw something. I’m certain she did. Beatrice Beech—”

“And maybe she killed the poor cat and cut it up just to draw pictures of all its parts.” Lionel turns the book to Cathy.

“I don’t want to see it,” she says. “She wrote things like that all the time. What in here is different from anything else she’s written?”

“Kitty said her door was opened. She was pushed off that roof. And she was locked in a box before that. Those bruises I saw, they’re directly from that, I’m sure of it. She’s afraid of the dark, Cathy, you know that. You don’t leave someone in a box who’s afraid of the dark.”

Lionel snaps the book shut. “You need to leave things alone.”

“Something was going on, Lionel. She writes it in here. She sent a complaint.”

“Delivered by Kitty,” Cathy says. “Or so she states. What a marvelous imagination for a dull girl.”

Lionel laughs. Puts his finger on the journal and slides it back to me without another look. Then he takes a ring of keys from his trouser pocket and unlocks a cabinet behind him. He grabs a handful of papers, all folded in thirds. Official blue paper with numbers inked along a top edge. He pulls out another handful to drop on top of the first.

“Why don’t you look at this. Before you believe her.” He clears his throat and unfurls the nearest, shaking it and holding it out. His eyebrow lifts.

“A party of seven Confederate rebels stole three bushels of corn from the feed barrel in the barn. Proof: Milk taken from milk cow. Proof: udders. Proof: Cobs on property.”

He folds it and sets it to the side.

“Runyons of Turee, Post Road, continue to enter my room and wake me hourly. Proof: Always leave a crow’s feather on the pillow. Three included.

“Or, how’s this: Lionel Snow (brother) has poisoned the wood warblers. Proof included: 1 bottle of lye, 1 bottle of whiskey, millet stirred with above. No bird song.”