Chapter Forty-Nine
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.
“I remember him all right. He went away after the fire, as well he should. Nothing was proved, but we all knew what he’d done.
Didn’t know anything about his whereabouts for years, but I figured he was traveling around, betting the horses, losing.
Years later, I heard he had a stroke of luck, he did.
Had a friend who was worse off than he was, and Crowley won his friend’s cottage in a bet.
Not much of a place, but not a bad spot, out toward Bakewell.
He lived there alone, like a hermit, for a while.
But maybe eight years ago, I heard he moved into a care home. ”
We ask a few more questions but have exhausted Mr. Welch’s knowledge about George Crowley.
He has no idea which care home and doesn’t know if George is still alive.
Nor does he know anyone who might. Wyatt seems disappointed, but I’m relieved.
We thank Mr. Welch and say goodbye. As we’re leaving the yard, Wyatt turns back.
“Why did you seem to be expecting us?”
“Thought you were with those crazy Americans playing at being detectives.” He leans forward and whispers. “I’ve got myself a key role in the murder. Not in the killing, mind you, I wouldn’t step up for that. My role is to pretend I was at Hadley Hall, looking after their horses. How about that?”
Wyatt turns to Amity and me, eyes wide, mouth agape.
“Is this fair?” Amity whispers. “Isn’t coincidence one of Roland’s no-no’s?”
“This isn’t coincidence, it’s serendipity,” Wyatt says.
“Oh dear.” Mr. Welch seems to realize what he’s done. “You’re—?”
“Yes,” I say. “We are some of those crazy Americans.”
“And as long as we’re here…” Wyatt sits back down on the bench.
Before Mr. Welch can object, Amity asks him to confirm that he shod Lady Blanders’s horses.
“Yes, that I did.” He’s all puffed up, like he’s relieved to get to play the role he practiced. “I was working at her stable for several days.”
“Did you talk to Lady Blanders?” Amity says.
“Didn’t even see her.”
“You worked alone? No one else was around?” Wyatt asks.
“The stable lad was in and out, and on my last afternoon one of the maids was hanging about my van and chatting him up.”
“Do you remember which one?” I ask.
“Maybe Lady Blanders’s maid, but I’m not sure.”
“Gladys Crone?” Amity says. I’m amazed that she remembers her name. “Pale face, severe expression, dark hair slicked down in a bun?”
“That’s the one.”
Scowling Mrs. Crone was friendly with the groom? I didn’t see that coming.
“Anything else out of the ordinary while you were there?” Wyatt asks.
“No, everything was fine when I was there ,” Mr. Welch says.
“And after you left?” Amity says.
“It wasn’t until I was all finished and back here that I noticed that one of my tools was missing from my van.”
Amity gasps and whispers, “Murder weapon.”
Wyatt flips through his notebook.
“Was it a square metal tool with a long handle?” he says.
Before Mr. Welch answers, I jump up from the bench, unable to contain my excitement.
“I know what you were missing,” I say.
“You do?” Amity says.
It’s amazing what you can retain even from reading when you’re only half awake.
“It was a flatter,” I say.
“That’s exactly right.” Mr. Welch looks impressed.
“Granddaughter of a blacksmith.” I wink.
“What’s a flatter?” Amity asks.
“It’s like a hammer, but it’s square, with a smooth surface and sharp edges,” I say.
“On the nose,” the blacksmith says. “It’s struck with a hammer and used to smooth out bumps and marks.”
“Where did you learn about a flatter?” Amity asks me.
“From Roland Wingford’s crime-solving farrier, Cuddy Claptrop. Who else?”