Page 16 of What Cannot Be Said

“Someone saw them arguing?”

She nodded. “I did. I caught Chester by his collar and told Cato to leave off shouting at the girl and take his dog home.”

“Did he?”

“He did, yes. Muttering all the while, of course. But he left.”

“I understand his cottage is near the park?”

“Yes, just outside the Petersham Gate. He shouldn’t be coming in here all the time without a ticket the way he does, but there’s no keeping him out.”

Sebastian turned to gaze off across the vast park. “Where exactly in the park were Julia and Madeline Lovejoy killed?”

“By Sidmouth Wood, that was,” she said. “Near what happened yesterday.”

“And how far is that from the Petersham Gate?”

Mrs.Hammond’s features contorted with a spasm of silent, unstated worry. “Not far. Not far at all.”

?Cato Coldfield’s small, whitewashed cottage stood on a narrow lane near the southern edge of the park. The house’s long-straw thatched roof was new and masterfully done, with an elaborate ridge pattern using cross spar work. But the cottage’s walls were in serious need of whitewashing, and what must once have been a charming cottage garden was now an overgrown mess, with a broken front gate that hung open. As Sebastian drew up and hopped down to the lane, a black-and-white dog came bounding out to greet him, all wagging tail and wiggling hind end and happily lolling tongue.

“Look who’s a good boy, then,” said Sebastian softly, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ears as he cavorted around Sebastian’s legs. “Only, mind you don’t scuff the shine on my boots or Calhoun will have your hide.”

“Bounder! Git away from him!” shouted a man coming around the side of the cottage. He was a big, burly man probably somewhere in his fifties, his thickly curling dark hair threaded with gray, his full-cheeked face weather-beaten and sunbrowned. He had a bulbous nose and wide mouth and heavy dark brows that drew together now in a frown as he paused before the house’s closed front door. “Wot you want with me?”

Sebastian gave the dog one last pat and straightened. “You’re Cato Coldfield?”

“I am.” He sniffed. “Know who you are, too. You’re that fancy London lord they brung out here yesterday evenin’ to help with them new killings.”

“How do you know that?”

“Saw you, I did. See things, I do.”

“Did you see anything yesterday that might explain what happened to that woman and her daughter?”

“Wot? Me? No.” He raised one hand to point a thick, blunt finger at Sebastian. “That ain’t got nothin’ t’ do with me, you hear? Just like I didn’t have nothin’ t’ do with them other killings fourteen years ago.”

“Where were you yesterday at midday?”

“Me? I was right here. Feelin’ poorly, I was. Was supposed to start top dressin’ Jake Dempsey’s roof, but I musta ate something that was off. Hit me hard, it did. So I stayed home. You can ask Jake if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you.”

“And yet you saw me.”

Something flared in the other man’s eyes. “That was later. Feelin’ better by then, I was, so I went out t’ see what was goin’ on. But earlier in the day, when folks say them two was shot, I was here. Sick.” He stared at Sebastian, eyes wide and belligerent, as if daring him to doubt him.

“Can anyone vouch for that?”

Coldfield showed his crooked yellow teeth in a nasty grin. “Well, I reckon Bounder here could.”

At the sound of his name, the dog looked up, wagged his tail, and gave a soft whoof.

Sebastian let his gaze rove over the jumble of objects near the cottage door: the piles of split hazel spars; the long pole ladder splayed at its base; the biddles, legget, shearing hook, and thatch rake. Unlike the garden and cottage, the thatcher’s tools were well tended, with the metal blades of the shearing hook, eaves hook, and long eaves knife all carefully honed to a gleaming edge.

A tin pail filled with white ironstone soaking in soapy water stood nearby.

Sebastian said, “Where were you fourteen years ago when Julia and Madeline Lovejoy were shot in the park?”

“I was here then, too. Mindin’ me own business, like I always do.”

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