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“I remember him all right. He went away after the fire, as well he should. Nothing was proved, but we all knew what he’d done. Didn’t know anything about his whereabouts for years, but I figured he was traveling around, betting the horses, losing. Years later, I heard he had a stroke of luck, he did. Had a friend who was worse off than he was, and Crowley won his friend’s cottage in a bet. Not much of a place, but not a bad spot, out toward Bakewell. He lived there alone, like a hermit, for a while. But maybe eight years ago, I heard he moved into a care home.”
We ask a few more questions but have exhausted Mr. Welch’s knowledge about George Crowley. He has no idea which care home and doesn’t know if George is still alive. Nor does he know anyone who might. Wyatt seems disappointed, but I’m relieved. We thank Mr. Welch and say goodbye. As we’re leaving the yard, Wyatt turns back.
“Why did you seem to be expecting us?”
“Thought you were with those crazy Americans playing at beingdetectives.” He leans forward and whispers. “I’ve got myself a key role in the murder. Not in the killing, mind you, I wouldn’t step up for that. My role is to pretend I was at Hadley Hall, looking after their horses. How about that?”
Wyatt turns to Amity and me, eyes wide, mouth agape.
“Is this fair?” Amity whispers. “Isn’t coincidence one of Roland’s no-no’s?”
“This isn’t coincidence, it’s serendipity,” Wyatt says.
“Oh dear.” Mr. Welch seems to realize what he’s done. “You’re—?”
“Yes,” I say. “We are some of those crazy Americans.”
“And as long as we’re here…” Wyatt sits back down on the bench.
Before Mr. Welch can object, Amity asks him to confirm that he shod Lady Blanders’s horses.
“Yes, that I did.” He’s all puffed up, like he’s relieved to get to play the role he practiced. “I was working at her stable for several days.”
“Did you talk to Lady Blanders?” Amity says.
“Didn’t even see her.”
“You worked alone? No one else was around?” Wyatt asks.
“The stable lad was in and out, and on my last afternoon one of the maids was hanging about my van and chatting him up.”
“Do you remember which one?” I ask.
“Maybe Lady Blanders’s maid, but I’m not sure.”
“Gladys Crone?” Amity says. I’m amazed that she remembers her name. “Pale face, severe expression, dark hair slicked down in a bun?”
“That’s the one.”
Scowling Mrs. Crone was friendly with the groom? I didn’t see that coming.
“Anything else out of the ordinary while you were there?” Wyatt asks.
“No, everything was fine when I wasthere,” Mr. Welch says.
“And after you left?” Amity says.
“It wasn’t until I was all finished and back here that I noticed that one of my tools was missing from my van.”
Amity gasps and whispers, “Murder weapon.”
Wyatt flips through his notebook.
“Was it a square metal tool with a long handle?” he says.
Before Mr. Welch answers, I jump up from the bench, unable to contain my excitement.
“I know what you were missing,” I say.