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

when Will failed to return for his tea, you went to Mr. Abbott, is that correct?” Lamb asked.
    â€œYes. I knew that Will was to trim some hedges for him.”
    She recited for them the narrative of her fetching Abbott and the two of them heading up the hill to the hedge to find Will. Her story fit with Abbott’s. Lamb found it interesting that Lydia exhibited no strong emotion as she described breaking down upon seeing her uncle’s mutilated body. Perhaps she had cried herself out for the moment. Perhaps, too, her earlier tears hadn’t been genuine.
    â€œDid Mr. Abbott attempt to remove the tools from your uncle’s body?” Lamb asked.
    Lydia wrung the handkerchief. “Yes, he did, sir.” She looked at Lamb. “For my sake,” she added woodenly. “I was just so shocked, you see.”
    â€œHow would you describe your relationship with Mr. Abbott?”
    Lydia sat up straighter and smoothed her dress over her legs. Wallace and Rivers exchanged quick, knowing glances. “My relationship, sir?” Lydia asked.
    â€œYes,” Lamb said. “Did the two of you know each other well? Had you ever taken tea with him, perhaps? Or danced with him? Did he ever write you a letter or give you a gift? Did you fancy him? Did he fancy you?”
    Lydia looked askance. “No, sir—nothing like that.”
    Now Wallace piped in. “So Mr. Abbott never made any advances toward you, Miss Blackwell? Never tried to have his way with you?”
    Lydia smoothed her dress again—roughly this time—and looked directly at Wallace. Her eyes flared, indignant. “No, sir,” she said. “
Nothing
like that. Mr. Abbott has always been a gentleman to me.”
    Her expression hardened, and Lamb sensed for the first time that she was afraid.
    â€œSeveral people have mentioned to us that some in the village believed Will to be a witch,” Lamb said. “That he’d once seen a black dog on the hill and that he’d since been mixed up in some way with the black arts.”
    â€œThose are
lies
, sir,” Lydia said, looking directly at Lamb. “Will was no witch. Those are hateful people who think that way.”
    Lamb withdrew from his pocket the note he’d found on Blackwell’s body and showed it to Lydia. “Does this look like Will’s handwriting?”
    Lydia looked at the note:
in the nut
. “Yes. That’s Will’s writing.”
    â€œI found this note in the pocket of your uncle’s jacket,” Lamb said. “Do you have any idea what it might mean?”
    Lydia shook her head. “No, sir.”
    â€œMr. Abbott told us of a boy who sometimes visited Will—a boy from Lord Pembroke’s manor who can’t speak,” Lamb said. “Do you know this boy?”
    â€œYes, sir. That is Peter.”
    â€œCan you tell me anything about Peter? How long has Will known him?”
    â€œHe draws things—bugs and that. He likes to watch Will work. But he’s soft in the head; he don’t speak.”
    â€œDo you know if Will was supposed to see Peter today?”
    â€œPeter just shows up, like.”
    â€œDo you know if Will had any disagreements with Peter, especially recently?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir.”
    â€œDoes Peter strike you as a strong boy—someone who could overpower Will if he’d a mind to?”
    â€œYes, sir. He’s skinny—lanky, like—but tall.”
    â€œHave you ever seen Peter get angry?”
    Lydia mulled the question. “Just the once. I looked out the window and he was in the front there, stomping around. Will was out there and I think Will might have said something to make Peter mad.”
    â€œDid you ask your uncle what he might have done to make Peter angry?”
    â€œNo, sir. It weren’t my business.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œLast summer.”
    Lamb was dying for a fag. He and the other two still had