some of that weight, thought Ogden. Together, they stopped to catch their breaths and observe the snowy field.
'What do you see, lad?'
'Uh… Niall's house? The barn? The well? Those trees?' Portnoy's eyes scanned the field for other guesses.
'Right, but what don't you see?'
Portnoy frowned and stared at the land they'd circumscribed with their path. Ogden studied the lad-for so he still considered Portnoy, even though the youth had grown taller than his uncle-watching for some glimmer of deductive reasoning. Portnoy would never be a village sage, but there was something more than moss growing between his ears.
Or so Ogden always hoped.
'Boot prints!' the boy exclaimed. 'They don't leave!'
'Aye,' agreed Ogden. 'They go from the house to the barn, and then they wind over to the pond.' Ogden frowned at the ragged trail, wondering why it was so irregular. He hoped that Ericson wasn't drunk. The man was mean enough sober.
'He hasn't left the farm since last night,' added Portnoy. 'There hasn't been enough snow since last night to cover up his tracks.' The cold had brought the blood to his cheeks, and he beamed at Ogden, watching for some sign of approval. The man rewarded him with a nod, but he frowned.
'Unless Niall has learned to fly, how'd he get to Cole's home and back?'
'It must be someone else,' said Portnoy. The disappointment in his voice was obvious, and Ogden knew just how he felt.
'Perhaps.' Ogden had been suspicious of Cole's note from the beginning. How would a murdered man find the time to scrawl such a message? And what murderer would leave it behind, even if he couldn't read it?
'Look there,' said Portnoy. Ogden's eyes followed the lad's own stare toward the farmhouse, where a fur- clad figure stomped toward them. His breath made plumes in the late morning air as the man approached.
'Well a day, Niall Ericson,' greeted Ogden.
'Constable,' said Niall simply. His voice was hard as winter granite. His lips were red beneath his dirty blond beard, though his skin was stone pale.
'Will we have more snow tonight, do you think?'
'What d'ye want?' said Ericson curtly. His flinty eyes invited no more small talk.
'The wizard Cole's been murdered,' replied Ogden.
'And what does that have t'do with me, then?' The man's tone had turned menacing, and Portnoy began to fidget beside his uncle. Even though the boy was of a size with Ericson, Ogden knew the man must frighten him.
'Maybe nothing,' said Ogden. He glanced past the mar toward the house, then met his eyes again. 'But the mage wrote down your name just before he died.'
Ericson looked genuinely astonished. 'Why would he…?'
'You won't mind our looking around a bit, then?'
Ericson stared back at Ogden's face. Ragged lines creased his face, and his eyes narrowed to black slits. Ogden noticed that the clouds of Ericson's breath had halted, and he tensed for an attack. Now he wished he'd brought more than Portnoy with him.
Finally, Ericson sighed impatiently and barked, 'All right, then. Make it quick!' He turned quickly and stalked back toward his house. Portnoy hesitated, looking to his uncle for a cue. Ogden nodded, and they both hurried to follow Ericson back toward his cottage.
'You follow his boot prints,' said Ogden. 'See where he's gone this morning. Then take a look in the barn. I'll peek inside the house.'
'Aye,' agreed Portnoy. He trembled with the excitement of a wolfhound pup on its first hunt, and off he went.
Ogden followed Ericson to the door of his house, but there he paused. The threshold was swept clear, but to one side a white glaze of ice covered the snow. At least he throws out the spoiled milk, thought Ogden. Ericson must be a better housekeeper than anyone expected. Ogden stepped inside the cottage.
The odor immediately changed Ogden's opinion of Ericson's domestic talents. Even through the wood smoke, the interior smelled of unwashed clothes. To Ogden's left there stood a table cluttered with dirty pots and bowls. One of them, a small shallow basin, was freshly broken. Ericson must use them all before washing any, thought Ogden.
Ogden took a step toward the table and nearly tripped on something that rolled beneath his foot. At the base of the table lay a pile of potatoes, half-tumbled by Ogden's careless step. Behind them, three full potato sacks leaned against the cottage wall.
Ogden stepped carefully away, then turned to look across the room. He saw a pile of furs and blankets covering the lone bed. Beside it, a trio of chairs lined the wall, each piled with smelly clothing. Nearby, the hearth fire snapped and hissed as Ericson stabbed it with an iron stoker.
'I haven't left my land all morning,' said Ericson. His tone had softened, but he still sounded gruff and unfriendly.
'Aye, that I believe,' said Ogden.
Ericson grunted in acceptance of Ogden's answer, but then he jutted his jaw defiantly. 'Then what do you want here?'
'Hmm,' replied Ogden, casting about a few last glances at the house. He walked outside once more. He saw Portnoy returning from the barn, frowning with frustration.
'Just sheep,' reported the boy. 'Sheep and feed and only what else you'd expect to find in the barn.'
Ogden only nodded. He was close to reckoning some connection between Ericson's cottage and Cole's. In most ways, the two homes couldn't be more different. Something continued to niggle at Ogden's mind, however. And the man had greeted him as 'constable.' He knew there was trouble this morning.
'Why would a man chop ice from pond water?' Ogden asked, more of himself than Portnoy.
The boy answered anyway. 'Yuck. Who'd drink pond water?' Even he knew that still water, even frozen, was likely to make the drinker sick.
'There's perfectly good snow everywhere, too.'
Portnoy shrugged and looked at Ogden's face. The man's brow was creased in impatient concentration. Portnoy imitated his expression. The family resemblance was striking, but neither of the Ffolk noted it.
'He didn't want anything from the pond…' began Ogden tentatively.
'… he put something into it!' finished Portnoy, grinning.
'Let's have a look,' said Ogden. Both men stepped toward the frozen water.
'That's enough,' boomed a voice behind them. They turned to see Ericson, still gripping the iron stoker. Its tip glowed red. 'You've had your look around.'
'True enough,' said Ogden. Now he knew he should have brought more men along. He knew at last how Ericson had murdered Cole, but now he'd let on what he had reckoned. By the time he could return with help, Ericson could destroy the evidence rather than just hide it. If he and Port-noy stayed, however, how would Ericson react?
'We'll be on our way, then,' said Ogden. 'Come along, lad.' He chucked Portnoy's elbow, though his eyes remained locked on the fiery stoker in Ericson's hand. Portnoy followed dully, distracted by the problem of what Ericson had put in the cold water.
They walked toward the pond, the way they'd come. Ericson followed. When Ogden glanced back at the man, he saw that the tip of the stoker whipped up and down in agitation. Ogden instantly regretted bringing Portnoy along for this visit. The big lad's presence might be a deterrent against attack from most men, but Ericson was desperate and dangerous. Ogden increased his pace, and Portnoy did the same.
'That's far enough.' Ericson's voice was calm and strong now. Ogden knew that meant he had come to a decision.
'Run, lad! Fetch help!' Ogden shoved Portnoy and turned to face the brawny Northman. He might not be able to disable the man, but at least he could give the boy a good start back to the village. Ericson growled deep and loud. Ogden whirled to face his attacker, crouching low and throwing up his left arm. He felt the blow of the stoker
