She carried the chicken pie into the dining room. Ellen followed with the bowl of mashed potatoes. Miss Harvey, Mrs. Beaman and Mr. Sprague were pulling back their chairs, discussing a bicycle race that had taken place in St. John.
“Is Mr. Tuck coming down?” Ellen said. She stood with the bowl of steaming potatoes balanced on the flat of her hand. A pat of butter loosened, pooled.
“Didn’t see him.”
They listened.
Mrs. Beaman, sitting, loosened her waistband with complacent tugs. She unfolded her napkin, surveying the table as the women set down pie and potatoes and hurried back to the kitchen.
Flora put her hand on her chest, pressing down on her heart’s heavy pound.
“Mr. Tuck is missing,” she said to Josephine.
The back door opened. Maud stood, panting.
“She’s not in the garden.”
Laughter, the clatter of silverware.
Ellen put out her hand and brought it down slowly, as if pushing something away. “Flora,” she said. “Did you see that brass duck on Enid’s bed?”
“Mr. Tuck’s brass duck? The one from the workshop? On Enid’s bed?”
“What are you talking about?” Josephine said.
“The children, they never had a brass duck?” Ellen asked her.
“I don’t remember any such thing.”
“Dear God in Heaven.” Ellen snatched up her glasses, went to the corner where articles about the axe murder trial were still pinned to the wall.
She ripped a yellowing paper from its tack. She sat at the table and ran her forefinger down a column until she found what she was looking for.
“This testimony was from a woman who used to visit the one that was murdered. She had gone to the house on the very day the woman was killed. After she was killed. I saw that nothing was missing from the chest of drawers except a large box containing her savings and a small brass duck that had been of particular notice, as being the only decorative item amongst her possessions.”
“There could be other brass—”
“Taken,” Ellen said. “Taken by the axe murderer.”
“The axe murderer was hanged, Ellen.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe they hanged the wrong man.”
“Oh. Oh, no. No. No.”
“What, Flora?”
“The drawer. He has a drawer stuffed full of money. Banknotes. Like a lifetime of savings. He threatened me if I ever spoke about it.”
—
They ran into the falling night, trailing half-buttoned coats. Mr. Sprague and Mrs. Beaman clustered in the doorway. Miss Harvey was putting through a telephone call to the town constables.
Harland noticed them from his dining room window. Light behind him, as he opened the front door. Table napkin fluttering from his hand like a moth. Flora veered from Ellen, Josephine and Maud.
Up the path.
She called out. The words, panted.
“Enid and Mr. Tuck. Disappeared. We found. Something that makes us think he is the murderer.”
“Murderer?”
“The axe murderer. Please, come, I’ll…”
He dropped the napkin. Left the door wide open behind him. The others had continued, were turning onto Main Street. Flora and Mr. Fairweather broke into a run, passing houses where people sat to supper. They caught up at the town hall, where a constable stood on the steps, surprise in his round blue eyes. He had received Miss Harvey’s telephone call.
They followed him into the office. He touched a match to the gaslights. Ellen stood at his desk, panting, holding out the article. He took it from her, sat. Read it.
“But they hanged that man,” he said, slowly. He spoke to Mr. Fairweather. Streak of mustard on his shirt. One cuff, unbuttoned. He ignored the women as if they were a cluster of hens.
“Let me see it,” Harland said.
He skimmed the article, eyebrows raised.
Ellen had not stepped back from the desk. She held herself as if in the process of falling to pieces: arms crossed, shoulders hunched, mouth pinched. Flora had never seen her outside of the kitchen.
“ ’Twas the brass duck.” She nodded at the paper. “See how it says…”
Mr. Fairweather did not comprehend. Josephine drew a breath, preparing to explain. The constable looked back and forth, now, between Josephine and Mr. Fairweather, doubt creeping into his face, a hint of irritation. He ignored Ellen. He had been interrupted at his meal.
Flora pushed in front of Mr. Fairweather. Her heart—heavy, surging. She took the paper from the constable’s fingers and slapped it down in front of him. He pushed back his chair, startled.
“Look at me,” she said. “You look at me and listen to me. This is my sister has been took.”
She enunciated each word like the distinct poke of a forefinger against the constable’s chest.
“Took by Mr. Jasper Tuck. They’re both missing. He lives at our boarding house. I work for him. He has a drawer filled with cash. I saw it. And a brass duck. Exactly what was stolen from that murdered woman. Cash, and a brass duck. This brass duck.” She worked the brass duck from her pocket, slammed it onto the desk. An unwashed teacup rattled in its saucer. “A murderer has my little sister. He has my little sister. We got to go after them. There’s no time. No time.”
A second constable stepped into the room. Both men pored over the article with increased interest.
“You seen this cash?” the first constable asked Flora.
“Yes,” Flora said. “An entire drawer filled with banknotes. In his workshop.”
“Why didn’t you—”
“Never mind,” Mr. Fairweather snapped. His cheeks flushed. His clothing, like the constable’s, was disarranged by his dash from the dinner table. “As she said. There’s no time.”
—
Reinforcements would arrive on the next train: four constables from St. John, three from Moncton.
The constables spread a map, traced the twisty roads.
“He will look for an abandoned barn. Or an abandoned house. Could be the old Carty place, up here on the Wallen’s Ridge. Or there’s another place down in Midvale…”
Mr. Fairweather murmured in Flora’s ear.
“I’ve asked the others if they would like to return home. They said they would. I’ll join the search.” Harland knew of outlying and abandoned places in the vicinity from his time as Overseer. “Do you want to
