9. These events had shaken the whole community, no doubt, but none more so than John Turner. He had been in ill health for some time and—following the news of his old acquaintance’s violent demise—had taken to bed. A remarkable downturn followed and now his life was despaired of.
The day was fairly well along by the time I had gathered this wealth of testimony, and already I was tired. Though it had been only a few hours, the urge to return to Mary was particularly vexing that day. The more I tried not to think of it, the more my anxiousness at our separation grew into a nagging headache. Grogsson’s frequent, loud, grammatically incomplete attempts to add detail to the case did not help assuage this phenomenon. I was interested to know what Lestrade knew of the matter, yet despite Grogsson’s insistence he was in the area, we did not encounter him. We did, however, have a note to drive out to the nearby jail and interview young James McCarthy.
Which is where things got rather peculiar.
To start with, the man was preternaturally handsome. He might have been merely superior, if it were not for one contributing factor: he seemed to have no idea how attractive he was. Did James’s shoulders bulge with sinewy muscle? Well in his mind that was just handy for digging ditches and moving hay. Was his jaw tough and square? Good; that might help if ever a horse should kick it. Were all his teeth straight and white and gleaming? All the better for chewing undercooked potatoes. This strange ignorance of one’s own allure—whether it appears in male or female—is enough to drive most eligible suitors mad with frustration and desire.
When the jailor let us in, James was slouching smoulderingly against the back wall of the cell.
“Oh… hello…” I said, then, “Forgot what I was going to say for a moment… Ah! Yes. My name is Dr. John Watson. Inspector Grogsson here seems to think you are innocent of your father’s murder. Is that correct?”
“Sure,” he replied.
Grogsson gave me a rough nudge and said, “See?”
“Well yes, Torg, but I’ll confess I’d hoped for a bit more to go on. Mr. McCarthy, what can you tell me about the scene of your father’s death?”
“Already told ’em all I know,” he said. “I’d just come home from a… well… a visit to Bristol.”
For a man who was protesting his own innocence, there was something particularly guilt-soaked about the way he said “visit”.
I filed it for future inquiry and asked, “How long had you been away?”
“Three days. I’d got back just a minute before. Dad was gone and I had nothing to do, so I grabbed my ol’ shooter and went out to get a rabbit or two.”
“So you weren’t following your father to Boggart Pool?” I asked.
“Nope. Rabbit hutch is on the other side, that’s all.”
It was an extreme coincidence. Yet if he was lying, he was doing it with the practiced coolness of a hardened criminal. I cocked my head with wonder.
“Then… when did you realize your father was ahead of you on the path?”
“When he started shouting, ‘Coo-ee! Coo-ee!’ I called out a hello and asked him what he was doing there, but he got pretty worked up to see me. Said I was crowding him and couldn’t a man get his privacy. And I said I wasn’t crowding him, I was looking for rabbits, and he said, ‘Leave!’ and I said, ‘No, you ain’t the boss of the pond!’ and we sort of got into a row.”
“Yes,” I noted, “Patience Moran says she saw you. She says you raised your fist at your father, as if to strike him.”
James shook his head sadly. “Yeah. I guess I did. I feel just awful about it. That’s why when they arrested me I told ’em it’s no less than I deserve.”
“Probably to the detriment of your legal defense,” I noted. “But here is the thing, Mr. McCarthy: only a few minutes passed between when Patience left and when you must have set out after her. There would certainly have been enough time for you to kill your father, but very little time for much else. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Sort of?” he said with a shrug. “I stormed off—it’s what I always did when father got hot. I heard a bit of noise behind me, which, I figured, was just Pops letting off steam. Kickin’ bushes and such. He’d do that sometimes. But it didn’t sound quite usual, you know? Too many heavy, wet thuds and splashing. I almost kept walking, but… well… it just wasn’t right, so I turned back. Which is when I tripped over the gray cloth.”
“Gray cloth?” I said, “I don’t think anyone mentioned finding a gray cloth.”
“No cloth,” Grogsson said.
I looked back and forth between Grogsson and McCarthy for clarification. McCarthy was first to speak. “I only saw it for a moment. I mean… I’ll swear I did. It looked like a cloak or a coat, or something. But I didn’t pay it much mind, because that’s when I saw Father lying there.”
The flash of pain and regret that crossed his features seemed entirely genuine. Despite the ill history between the two men, the actual act of seeing his father lying mortally wounded seemed to have greatly affected young James. I thought a moment and asked, “How did you
