Chapter 7 #2
“More trouble’n it’s worth,” Mrs. Kent said.
“I’d be going back and forth looking for the key.
But if it happens again, maybe.” She got up and went to the stove and began slapping ingredients around.
It looked more like venting her feelings than cooking.
I finished my biscuit meekly, refilled my coffee, and carried the mug upstairs to get back to work.
There was no light in the woods that night. I had almost succeeded in convincing myself that there was nothing at work but a strange coincidence, until two nights later, when I saw the glow of the lantern moving between the trees.
Forty-two minutes later, the front door slammed as Halder came inside.
“Another hen gone!” said Mrs. Kent. Her bafflement was clearly about to metamorphosize into rage. I could practically see it, like a dark red butterfly fluttering around her head. “Not a sign of anything. No blood, no feathers, just gone.”
Jackson had been attempting to placate her when I walked into the kitchen. It hadn’t gone well. He had gone out to the garden and I took my plate outside and ate my breakfast there.
I had an idea. It was fairly strange and I didn’t want to share it with anyone yet. Mrs. Kent didn’t seem like she was in the mood to entertain speculation right now, so I dropped my plate in the scullery and slipped past the door without bothering her.
My idea was very simple. Actually, it was more of a question than an idea. Was it possible that Halder had been taking the chickens to the shed?
A good scientist tests their hypotheses. I checked the clock in the hall—7:25—and then scurried as quickly as I could outdoors, to the spot where I had seen the light last night. Figure that took about a minute, maybe two. Now, the Kents’ house is this way …
I had to slow my usual brisk gait to allow for the darkness and Halder’s slower pace.
Still, it was no time at all before the Kents’ cottage hove into view.
It was a small, neat building, clearly built at the same time as the main house.
When I had seen it that first Sunday, I had thought that it looked much friendlier and more lived-in than Halder’s mansion.
Chintz curtains framed the windows, and a hen had escaped the run and was scuffling in the dirt at the edge of the woods.
There was an elderly hound asleep on the porch.
We’d been introduced before. If I were painting him, I’d lay in yellow ochre for the fur, then lift most of it back out again for his face, which had gone white to the eyebrows.
He lifted his head when he saw me, then stood up, stretched arthritically, and ambled down to have his ears scratched.
He ignored the chicken, who returned the favor.
“Sorry, boy,” I told him. “Can’t stay. I’m testing a hypothesis.”
The dog indicated that he would like to test a hypothesis involving an old dog’s ears being scratched.
I groaned. “You’re gonna ruin my science, boy.
” He leaned against my shins and began the slow melt that some dogs are capable of, in defiance of all laws of physics.
I studied the henhouse. How long would it take to get in and grab a hen?
I didn’t want to actually test that part, because if someone showed up, I would have a devil of a time explaining myself. Three minutes? Five?
Probably depends on how comfortable you are with grabbing a chicken, and if you know the layout of the coop. Halder certainly knows where it is, but does he come here regularly enough to be quick at it?
It seemed unlikely. Mrs. Kent wouldn’t have been so upset if chickens were vanishing regularly. And surely if you had a regular need for live chickens, and you already owned the chickens, you’d just give orders to the housekeeper to fetch one?
None of this made any sense. I tamped down my speculations. First, figure out if Halder could have been the one taking the chickens. Then start worrying about causes.
I realized with a start that I had been standing there, petting the dog and staring into space, and lost track of time.
Had it been five minutes? Longer? I grumbled at my past self for selling Father’s pocket watch, but in fairness, she hadn’t known that she might someday be timing how long it took to steal a chicken.
I gave the dog a firm pat and stepped back. He heaved an enormous sigh and returned to the porch. I turned around and retraced my steps, past the house, in the direction of the alleged gunpowder shed.
I wasn’t quite certain that I’d be able to find it again.
There was no path etched through the woods, which argued against regular nocturnal visits, although given the carpet of pine needles, a path might not show up well.
You should have worked out where it was in advance, I told myself irritably. This will throw off the timing.
If you keep going out to the shed, Phelps might catch you again and what if he tells Halder and Halder thinks you’re spying on him and he turns you out and you’ve only made a month’s wages and …
I clamped it down. If anyone asked, I was going to the stream. I had my sketchbook to prove it. And anyway, it was none of Phelps’s business, and why was he even here?
My sense of direction was not so bad as I’d thought. I saw the shed roof through the trees and a moment later, I was standing in front of it. Once again, I wished for a pocket watch. I turned and made my way back to the house, finding a slightly shorter path this time.
When I finally got inside, the clock read 7:56. Thirty-one minutes. Allowing for the time it had taken me to get into position, it seemed that Halder would have had more than enough time to steal a chicken and take it to the shed, as long as he didn’t spend more than ten minutes there himself.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d successfully proved that Halder could be responsible. In fact, I was increasingly sure that he was responsible.
Now what?