Page 75 of Welcome to Murder Week

Amity looks as confused as I am.

Wyatt picks up his notebook and starts thumbling through the pages.

“I don’t remember meeting anyone by that name,” Amity says.

“Hold on,” Wyatt says. “Aha! I knew that name was familiar. Lady Blanders’s horse servant mentioned him.”

“Horse servant?” Amity says.

“Hoof man?” Wyatt says.

“I think he’s called a stable hand,” I say. “Or a groom.”

“Okay, the stable hand asked Lady Blanders about the new shoes and she asked if the others were done. The other horses. And here it is, I wrote it down—my god, I’m good at this—he told her that, and I quote, old Mr. Welch was still at work.”

“Mr. Welch is a blacksmith?” Amity says.

“Mr. Welch is anoldblacksmith,” Wyatt says. “The stable hand called him ‘Old Mr. Welch,’ remember? And he may be our best shot at finding out something about Cath’s grandfather. Wouldn’t one old blacksmith know another?”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

I’m still not sure I want to meet George Crowley, but I agree to go along to talk to Mr. Welch. His forge is off the main road, less than a mile from our cottage. A thick man in a long leather apron steps into the dusty courtyard to greet us.

“Well, well, it’s high time. Come on in, and I’ll answer all your questions.”

“You know why we’re here?” Amity gives us a look.

Did Edwina or Germaine call ahead?

“Of course not, why would I know that?” He looks like he’s having a hard time keeping a straight face. “You look like you’re here for a lesson. Just the type. Plenty of folk want to learn blacksmithing these days, all the old ways. Don’t want to buy things, want to make them. Like it’s easy-peasy.”

“You’re Joseph Welch?”

“That I am.”

“We wanted to ask you about a George Crowley,” Wyatt says.

“A who what now?”

“He was a blacksmith. He lived near the viaduct a long time ago. His house burned down.”

“Forty-six years ago,” I say.

Mr. Welch rubs a hand over his mouth.

“What has that to do with—?” He looks around, like someone is going to appear in his courtyard and come to his rescue, get him out of this pickle.

“We’re trying to locate him,” I say.

“This isn’t what I was—”

“She’s his granddaughter,” Amity says, giving me a little nudge forward.

“George Crowley, your granddad?” He scowls and spits onto the dirt.

“I know what he did, so don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I’ve never met him.”

He nods, chewing his lip, and sits down on a tree stump in the yard. He gestures for us to sit on the wooden bench opposite.

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