Page 39

A thena had never visited the George and Dragon, which sat on the corner of Main Street at the south end of the village, a seventeenth-century building so covered in creeping ivy that it almost entirely obscured the grey stone beneath.

Pubs were generally considered to be a space for men only, other than some of the staff, but nothing could have kept Athena out of the place this evening.

She entered to find a good-sized room with rough, plank flooring and whitewashed walls, a stone hearth emitting the welcome warmth of a blazing fire, and a handful of patrons at the long, oak bar.

Athena studied the roomful of customers and spotted Mr. Osborn at a table in back, drinking beer with Mr. Carson, one of the crewmen who had worked on her roof.

Athena began by approaching the bar, where Miss Osborn was wiping down the counter. “How are you?” she asked the barmaid.

The young lady’s eyes narrowed as if confused to see Athena there. “Well enough. Forgive me, Miss Taylor. I’ve been meaning to write to thank you for the medicine you sent. It didn’t cure my cough, but it’s helped to control it quite a bit.”

“I’m so glad.” It bothered Athena to think that Miss Osborn’s own father hadn’t been willing to pay for a medicine that had apparently done her some good. And that Sally Osborn might have died needlessly, if she had indeed tried to blackmail someone to get money to help her sister.

“Can I help you with something?” Miss Osborn asked.

“I’m here to deliver this tonic to your father.” Athena showed Miss Osborn the bottle and explained that the apothecary shop’s boy had left for the day.

“Papa’s sitting in the back with Mr. Carson, his best friend.”

“I saw that. I’d like to order a beer.”

Miss Osborn grinned. “Well, aren’t you the bold one. Dark or light?”

“Dark, if you please. And would you be so kind as to bring it to the table where your father and Mr. Carson are sitting?”

“Yes, miss.” The barmaid chuckled. “A glass of our finest stout coming right up, as soon as I can pump it from the keg. And it’s on the house.”

Athena thanked her kindly and crossed to her quarry.

“Mr. Osborn. Mr. Carson. Pray, excuse me.”

Both men glanced up. Mr. Carson quickly rose to his feet and doffed his cap. Mr. Osborn gave her an incredulous stare. He grabbed his cane and was about to stand, but Athena stopped him with a raised hand.

“Please, sir, don’t get up. I’m here because your order was ready at Quince’s Apothecary. I offered to bring it to you on my way home.” She handed him the medicine.

“Appreciate it,” he grumbled as he accepted the bottle and shoved it in a pocket.

“You’re most welcome. Would you mind if I joined you? I ordered a beer.”

Mr. Osborn’s jaw dropped, and he seemed to be struggling for a reply.

Mr. Carson scratched his curly, blond head and then pulled out the third chair at the table. “We’d welcome your company, miss.”

“Thank you.” Athena sat.

Mr. Carson resumed his own seat. Miss Osborn appeared with a glass of dark, creamy stout and placed it on the table before Athena. “Enjoy,” she said before retreating.

“What’s the medicine for, Osborn?” Mr. Carson asked. “Your ghost arm or your hip?”

“Both.”

“Does it help?”

“Sometimes,” Mr. Osborn muttered as he raised his beer. “Drink is better.”

Athena and Mr. Carson laughed, and they all took a sip from their respective glasses.

Athena enjoyed the beer, which had a creamy head and a refreshing, robust flavor. She reminded herself to sip slowly so she could keep a clear head and focus on her task. Somehow, she had to get Mr. Osborn to talk about his relationship with the late Harold Sinclair.

Turning to Mr. Carson, she said, “I cannot thank you enough, sir, for the masterful work you did on my roof.”

“I can’t say how masterful it was until it rains again,” Mr. Carson admitted with a shrug. “But it was an honor and a pleasure to work at Thorndale Manor again. An old house like that always needs some kind of repair.”

“Best job we ever did was when we added on that conservatory,” Mr. Osborn reflected moodily, taking a drink of beer.

“Did you help build that room, Mr. Osborn?” Athena asked.

“I did. Back when I had two good arms and two good legs.”

Mr. Carson wiped foam from his upper lip with the back of his sleeve. “You were always the best man on any crew, Osborn.”

“I’d still be if I hadn’t taken that fall,” Mr. Osborn insisted. “Correction: if that scoundrel Sinclair had only been a gentleman.”

Athena’s pulse leapt. Here was her opening. “To which Mr. Sinclair are you referring? Harold or Neville? Or their father, perhaps?”

“Harold, of course. The father had died some years before.” Mr. Osborn’s mouth tightened. “Harold Sinclair wasn’t worth the ground he walked on.”

“What was your complaint against him?” Athena asked.

“My complaint ?” Mr. Osborn let go a loud, scornful breath. “Nothing much, just a lame hip and the loss of my right arm.”

Mr. Carson interjected. “It was Harold Sinclair’s fault.”

“How so?”

“We were putting a new roof on the stables at Woodcroft House,” Mr. Carson explained.

“I was on top of the ladder with the tool bucket when my hammer slipped from my hand,” Mr. Osborn put in.

The men shared the details in tandem in such a rapid manner, Athena guessed it was a subject they had discussed many times before.

“Harold Sinclair and I were standing below,” Mr. Carson added. “I was going to bring the hammer up to Osborn, but Sinclair was impatient and grabbed it first.”

“Sinclair tossed the hammer up to me. But in trying to catch it, I lost my footing and fell to the ground.”

“Oh, no.” Athena could envision the scene, having so recently witnessed the dangers of roof repair.

“The stables are only one story high; otherwise, Osborn would have broken his neck.”

“They had to carry me home. I begged Sinclair to summon a doctor from York, but would he?” Mr. Osborn slammed his fist against the table. “No! The penny-pincher called Mr. Quince.”

“Osborn’s hip grew back all wrong and his arm festered.” Mr. Carson made a face.

“What a terrible thing.” Athena’s heart went out to Mr. Osborn. “I take it that is what occasioned the amputation?”

Mr. Osborn nodded. “An operation which Quince performed. I’m lucky it didn’t kill me. And what’s worse, Miss Taylor? Harold Sinclair refused to pay the bill.”

Athena couldn’t disguise her shock. “That is unacceptable.”

“I got up a collection plate in the village.” Mr. Carson’s eyes were stormy with anger. “We all gave what we could. But Osborn had to pay the rest out of his own pocket.”

“Took me over a year to pay Quince back. The money had to come from my daughters’ wages, for I was out of work and have been ever since.

” A vein pulsed in Mr. Osborn’s forehead.

“We were working on Harold Sinclair’s property.

He had all the money in the world. Yet he left me maimed for life and holding the bag.

I’ll never forgive him for that. Never . ”

“I’m so very sorry that happened to you,” Athena said.

“Sinclair was never sorry.” Mr. Osborn’s face was beet red now. “He didn’t even have the decency to visit me when I was laid up.”

“Dying was too good for that bastard,” sneered Mr. Carson, who raised his glass as if in a toast. “May Harold Sinclair rot in hell.”

An odd look passed between the two men. It seemed to indicate a sense of silent satisfaction—or was it collaboration?

“May Harold Sinclair rot in hell,” Mr. Osborn echoed.

Both men drained their glasses.

“And on that note, I’m off for home.” Mr. Osborn shoved his chair back, retrieved his cane, and lumbered awkwardly to his feet. “Bridget always leaves me a meat pie in the larder and it’s better than anything the George and Dragon serves.”

Mr. Carson also stood. “It was a pleasure chatting with you,” he told Athena.

“And you, sirs,” she said, rising, and sorry that the conversation was over.

“Thank you for dropping off the tonic,” Mr. Osborn said in a low, grudging tone.

“You’re welcome. Good evening, gentlemen.”

The men left. Athena took one more sip of her beer, savoring its freshness and wishing she could enjoy a bit more—but she had been gone far longer than she had intended and was already starting to feel mild effects from the drink. It would be inexcusable for her to return to school lightheaded.

A few minutes later, Athena was heading down the river path towards home, her body gently buzzing and her thoughts in a whirl.

She now understood what Mr. Quince had meant. It was no wonder that George Osborn had hated Harold Sinclair, the man Osborn blamed for leaving him maimed and unable to work.

Had that hatred led Mr. Osborn to commit a heinous act? Had he murdered Harold Sinclair? It was entirely possible.

But then again, the culprit might have been Margaret Quince.

Or Edward Ackroyd.

All three had hated the man.

As she passed the spot on the riverbank where Sally Osborn’s body had been discovered, Athena tripped over an unseen tree root and nearly fell.

She caught herself just in time and stood for a long moment, hands on her knees, catching her breath, her heart pounding with fright.

She should have been more careful! If she had been a couple of feet closer to the river’s edge, she might have tumbled into the churning waters.

She suddenly wondered—could Neville Sinclair have been right, after all? Had Sally Osborn similarly tripped and drowned?

But no, no. There was the matter of the blue shoes and the unslept-in bed. The maid had come down here to meet someone, and she’d been murdered—Athena knew it in her bones.

But who had killed her? And why?

A shiver coursed through Athena’s body as and she hurried on.

Was Sally’s death indeed connected to the murder of Harold Sinclair?

That connection seemed unlikely if George Osborn had murdered Sinclair, for what man would murder his own daughter?

But all at once, Athena remembered something that turned that idea on its head.