Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(222)
Trahern bent near the girl and peered at the scrawled letter in the sand. “ ‘Tis an ’R,‘ ” he murmured then straightened to consider his bondsman. “Or it could be a ’P.‘ But then, I can vouch for Pitney.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It could stand for Ruark, but ’tis my inclination to disbelieve that. I am certain I could vouch for you, also, should the occasion arise.”
Ruark’s throat was dry. The twisted body was all too familiar. He managed a hoarse, “Thank you, sir.”
“Or it could stand for Ralston, yet I can hardly envision him with a young girl like this. He much prefers heavier, plumper, older women. More solid and reliable. ‘Like England,’ he says.”
Ruark raised his eyes and scanned the low bluff above the beach. A clump of brush showed broken twigs and higher up a strip of white cloth hung like a banner from a branch.
“There!” He pointed. “She must have fallen from up there.” He walked down a ways to a break in the bluff and scrambled up, followed in close order by Trahern and Pitney. Mister Hanks remained below and strolled out toward his boat, wanting no further part of the gruesome affair.
The three found a small glade heavily shaded by trees and hidden by shrubs. Its floor was a thick bed of springy moss, and here was written the rest of the tale. The moss was uprooted in chunks and tossed about, giving a sign of a fierce struggle. Pieces of Milly’s clothing were scattered afar, and deep boot marks showed where she had been carried to the brink.
Pitney’s voice shook. “The filthy whoreson thought her dead and threw her into the sea. She would have gone out on the tide and disappeared without a trace. The poor lass. ‘Twas an evil thing that was done here by an evil man.”
His gray eyes caught Ruark’s, and for a long moment the two gazes held unwaveringly. When Pitney spoke again, his tone was certain as he directed his statement to the younger man.
“I do not know of such a one who would do this.”
Trahern snorted. “Nor do I. ‘Tis a beastly thing. Beastly.”
“Squire,” Ruark began reluctantly, and Trahern faced him with a quizzical stare. “I would have you hear it from me and now.” He had to squint almost into the sun to meet the man’s gaze, but meet it he did. “Milly claimed she was with babe and needed me to wed her.”
“And were you the father?” Trahern inquired slowly.
“Nay, I was not,” Ruark avowed. “I never laid a hand on the girl.”
After a moment the squire nodded. “I believe you, Mister Ruark.” He sighed heavily. “Let’s get the girl home. Elot will be along with a wagon any moment now.”
The barouche bore the men to the Hawkinses’ house where Pitney excused himself and made off for the dramshop. Arrangements had been made for Milly’s body to be tended to by a close friend of the fishmonger before the woman could see the abuse her daughter had suffered. Trahern and Ruark stood outside the humble dwelling and braced themselves for meeting the Hawkinses. The yard and exterior were a shambles. A pair of scrawny swine snorted in a corner beneath a haphazard shelter of boards while a dozen or so guinea hens scratched in the path.
With some apprehension the two entered the house. It was neat and clean, though painfully unadorned but for a single wood-carved crucifix hanging on the wall. Mister Hawkins lounged on a lopsided settee and did not even glance at them.
“The old lady’s out back,” he grunted and sucked long on a bottle of rum, still staring off into the distance.
In back of the house, a roof hung on crooked poles giving shade but little hindrance to rain. Beneath it Mrs. Hawkins stood at a high table, her back to them. With a huge knife she cleaned fish, spilling the offal into a wooden barrel. Shanna sat on a stool to one side and met their eyes with a small shrug, though signs of recent tears still lingered in her own.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Mrs. Hawkins spoke over her shoulder without pausing in her task. “Have a seat wherever. I has me work to do.” Her voice sounded tired.
Both Trahern and Ruark remained standing and stared at each other awkwardly, wondering what was to be said. The old woman worked on, though she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed loudly once in a while.
“She was an unlucky girl,” Mrs. Hawkins’s flat voice stated suddenly. She braced her hands on the table and stood with bowed head. She could barely be heard now. “I pray she’s at peace. She fretted overmuch about things she could not have and was never satisfied with what she got.”
The old fishwife turned to face them, her eyes streaming tears of sorrow.