The Language of the Dead by Stephen Kelly Read Free Book Online

near the hearth. Lamb introduced himself, Wallace, and Rivers, and asked Lydia Blackwell’s permission to sit in her parlor. He sensed that few people bothered to ask Lydia Blackwell’s permission for anything.
    â€œYes,” Lydia said. “Yes, sir.” She straightened in her chair.
    The policemen sat before her; Rivers sat next to Lamb, a move Lamb thought deliberate. Wallace removed a small notebook and pencil from the pocket of his jacket, flipped open the book, and laid it on his knee.
    â€œFirst, let me say that I am sorry about your uncle,” Lamb said.
    Lydia sniffed. “Yes,” she said. “Will were a good man.”
    â€œConstable Harris tells me that you arrived home from work this evening and found Will gone.”
    â€œYes. Will never misses his tea. I usually get home from my job a little after five and wash up the dishes.”
    â€œAnd where is Will, usually, when you arrive home from work?”
    â€œSitting here in front of the fire,” she said. She gestured to the wooden chair that faced the hearth. “Smoking his pipe.”
    â€œHe never went out after his tea—say for an evening constitutional?” Rivers interjected.
    â€œNo,” Lydia said. “He waits for me to wash up the tea things, then to cook my own meal. Then he sits with me while I eat.”
    Lamb noticed that Lydia continued to speak of her uncle as if he were alive. If this was an act to convince him of her grief and devastation, it was a sophisticated one, he thought.
    â€œAnd did you talk while you ate?” Lamb asked. Rivers glanced quickly and queerly at Lamb, as if he thought the question irrelevant.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œHe usually tells me about his day, though sometimes he likes to talk to me about his birds.”
    â€œHis birds?”
    â€œYes, sir. Will believes that he can talk to birds and they to him. He can entice a songbird, a sparrow, like, to eat right out of his hand.”
    Lamb decided to leave alone for the moment the subject of Will Blackwell’s alleged ability to communicate with birds. He could see, though, how such beliefs and behaviors might have led some of the least-educated souls of Quimby to believe Will a witch.
    â€œHad Will spoken to you in recent days or weeks about something that might have been weighing on his mind?” Lamb asked.
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œHow about a dispute he might have been having with someone? Had he a row or an argument?”
    â€œNo. Will didn’t spend much time with other people.”
    â€œSo Will hadn’t had a disagreement with Mr. Abbott recently?”
    The question seemed to surprise Lydia. “No,” she said quickly. “Will didn’t have no disputes with people.”
    â€œBut everyone has disputes with people, Miss Blackwell,” Rivers interjected.
    Lydia looked at Rivers with something like wariness in her eyes. Lamb worried that Rivers’s bluntness might cause Lydia to fold up her wings. Apparently, Rivers hadn’t changed much since the war.
    â€œWill didn’t,” she said to Rivers. “He stayed away from people.”
    â€œExcept for yourself and Mr. Abbott, of course,” Rivers said. He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his tone.
    Lydia glanced at the floor. “Yes.”
    Lamb leaned forward in his chair and rested his hands between his knees. “How did your uncle treat you, Miss Blackwell?” he asked. “Did he treat you well?”
    â€œHow did he treat me, sir?” she asked.
    â€œYes. Was he kind to you? Did he have a temper? You told us that you washed up his tea things every day, even though you had yourself just returned from a full day’s work. If you weren’t prompt in this, might Will have become angry with you?”
    â€œWashing up is one of the jobs I do to earn my keep,” she said, as if the answer to Lamb’s question was self-evident.
    â€œSo