Chilton Foliat, the Wheatsheaf, and asked where Malcolm and Rosemary Adams lived. The gent I spoke to pointed up a side road and told me fourth house on the right, and wasn’t it such a sad thing. I didn’t know if he was talking about Malcolm’s shot-up legs, how he used Rosemary as a punching bag, her brother being murdered, or her taking up with a Negro back when she thought Malcolm was dead. I would have been happy to order a pint and pursue the topic at leisure, but I was short on that last commodity.
The dirt road was rutted and followed a drainage ditch that ran from the fields above. Cows grazed in the fenced green pastures opposite a row of ancient houses. The Adams place was whitewashed stone with a thatched roof, set back from the road and surrounded by a kitchen garden and chicken coops. I knocked on the door and a young woman answered.
“Mrs. Adams?” I asked, not sure if I was talking to her or not. She was young, maybe just twenty.
“She’s in the kitchen. Are you from the army?” I said I was, which was pretty clear from my uniform, but I didn’t crack wise over it. I had the feeling I was missing something. “Come in, then.”
Rosemary Adams sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of tea. There was an immediate sense of wrongness in the room, a calamity I did not yet understand. She hardly looked at me as her friend guided me in front of her.
“Mrs. Adams,” I said. “I’m Captain Boyle. Billy Boyle. I’d like to ask you some questions, if this isn’t a bad time.” Although it was obvious it was.
“Questions?” she asked, as if struggling to understand the concept.
“Aren’t you here about the damages?” asked the other woman.
“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” I admitted. “What damages?”
“For Malcolm, her husband,” the young woman said. “Who was killed last night by one of your trucks.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I said, caught flat-footed by the news. “What happened?”
“Dorothy,” Rosemary said to the young woman. “You can go home now. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” Rosemary nodded and Dorothy shrugged as she left.
“Please sit down, Captain Boyle,” Rosemary Adams said. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be great,” I said. Back in Southie, it was more likely to be a shot and a beer at a time like this, but it was basically the same. A soothing ritual, the familiar in the midst of the horrible.
“Malcolm went to the pub last night. Like most nights,” she said, putting the kettle on. “No, to be honest, like he did every night. Took his bicycle, since it hurt to walk that far. He’d taken a nasty fall once, but he still insisted, even though his legs pained him even with the bicycle. His wounds were terrible, just terrible.”
“I heard about that,” I said, filling in the sudden silence while she wept.
“Stayed until closing, they told me, and then left to come home. He fell again, and couldn’t get up, from what the driver said. One of yours, a big truck. They had the headlamps taped over, for the blackout, you know. Only a slit of light showing, and one bulb was out, so they could hardly see. Ran poor Malcolm over in the road.” The teacup rattled in her hand as she set it in a saucer. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it? I’ve heard your name, Captain Boyle. You’re looking into the murder, aren’t you?” She set down the tea in front of me. I took it with milk, but said no to the sugar.
“Yes, I am here about the murder. That’s why I came by today. I’m sorry to intrude.”
“I’m glad you’ve come,” Rosemary said, sitting across from me. She wore a faded cotton dress, and her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a bright ribbon. Her eyes were red with tears, and traces of freckles from the sun stood out on her cheeks. She was a good-looking woman, worn hard around the edges by work and tragedy. “Do you have any news about Abraham?”
“No,” I said, barely recalling Angry’s given name. “But I don’t think he’s guilty, if that helps.”
“Nothing helps,” Rosemary said, as she slowly rubbed her hands. “First I thought Malcolm was dead, and God help me, I was glad of it. Even before I met Abraham, I was glad when I heard. Malcolm was a charmer when he and I were young, but there was a meanness in him that I didn’t see then. It was a relief when he went off to war and an even greater relief when he didn’t come home. Isn’t that a terrible thing to say?”
“He used to beat you, I heard. That would make me glad to be rid of him.”
“He would apologize when it was over. I hated that more. So when he was reported killed, I pretended to be sad, to join in with the other grieving widows. But when I was alone, I would dance. In this very kitchen, I would swirl around the table in absolute joy. And then I met Abraham. I know what they call him, but he was never that way with me. Never angry. Gentle and kind, he was. I must shock you terribly, Captain Boyle.”
“I’m not shocked easily, Mrs. Adams. Whites and Negroes don’t mix back home, so I do find it strange to think about. We have a lot of history in the way.”
“But you’re a friend of Tree’s, aren’t you? You’ll help us?”
“Yes,” I said. She relaxed, leaning back into her chair.
“I was happy for the first time in my life,” she said. “And then I got the letter, saying that Malcolm had been found, wounded. He’d lost his identity disc and was unconscious for days. He’d had several surgeries on his legs. The hospital never contacted his unit, so they thought he was dead, left in the jungle to rot.”
“What was he like when he came home?”
“You know, finding out about Abraham gave him something to live for. It gave him something to hate. It was all he had.” She stood up, and I wondered if she would dance around the table after I left. “He hit me once, and fell over. Gave me a black eye, but never tried again. Not because he was kind or ashamed, but because he was embarrassed to have lost his balance in front of me.”
“Do you think Malcolm or Abraham had anything to do with your brother’s death?”
“No. Tom was a good brother, and he was trying to protect me. I know he said some awful things to Abraham, but it was to drive him away. I truly have no idea why anyone would want to hurt him. Or leave him on Dad’s grave, for that matter.”
“And Abraham?”
“He felt terrible about leaving me with Malcolm, and I knew Malcolm would have liked nothing more than to goad Abraham into striking him so he could press charges. That’s why I lied about that night when Malcolm didn’t come home. I told the police Abraham was with me; I thought he and Malcolm had fought, and that I was protecting him. As it turned out, all I was doing was placing Abraham close to Tom’s body.”
“Is there any reason you can think of that Tom was killed? Did he or your father have any enemies?”
“Tom never had the chance for any really big cases, like Dad did. Not enough time for that. Poor Tom,” she said, and a sob burst from her lips. “All he ever wanted to be was a policeman. He followed Dad’s investigations, badgered him something awful when we were kids. Dad would come home and want to put his feet up by the fire and read the evening newspaper, but Tom would pepper him with questions about what he did that day.” She smiled at the memory as she wiped her tears.
“PC Cook is looking into his old cases,” I said. “Your father’s, I mean. To see if there’s any possible connection. Perhaps someone released after a long prison sentence.”
“Would you like to see the scrapbook?” Rosemary asked.
“What scrapbook?”
“The one Tom kept when we were kids. Newspaper articles and the like. The odd bit of police paperwork Dad left lying about. I still have it.”
“May I borrow it? I’ll have it back in a day or so.” It was a long shot, but there might be some clue about a long-forgotten feud.
Rosemary left the room and returned with a thick scrapbook, browned paper showing at the edges.
“If it will help, keep it as long as you need,” she said. I stood, and took the book from her. “Promise me you’ll do your best.”
“I will,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
She walked me to the door and opened it, stepping out into the fresh air. “Good,” she said. “I’ve already lost so much of my life. I want some of it back. Bring Abraham to me, Captain Boyle.”
I left her standing there, eyes closed, letting the sunlight wash over her face. I hoped one day there would be real dancing in the house, two happy people arm in arm. It wasn’t the easiest thing for me to imagine, a black hand on a woman’s white skin. But I had a harder time imagining lingering sadness and a lifetime of loss, played out in a hardscrabble yard full of carrots, cabbages, and clucking chickens.
