Never Trust a Dead Man (15 page)

"She called off the betrothal?" Selwyn asked from between clenched teeth, fighting to keep his hands off Farold's little neck. "I kept asking, 'Is there anything you can think of that I should know?' and you didn't think to mention that Anora canceled the betrothal? Are there any other little details you've left out, like
—for example
—maybe somebody said, 'Farold, I'm going to kill you'? Maybe you forgot to mention that?" Selwyn realized he was close to shouting, and in his own voice. He took several deep breaths.

"What difference could it make to you, considering your circumstances, that Anora and I had a little falling-out? Besides"—Farold ruffled his feathers—"I didn't think she meant it when she said she wouldn't marry me. I thought she'd get over it."

"
What?
" Selwyn asked in disbelief.

"She never actually said at the time why she was so angry. Don't forget I didn't know that Kendra—falsely, remember?—accused me of fathering a child. It's not my fault."

"Nothing ever is," Selwyn grumbled. But he was remembering the morning before Farold had been killed, when he'd seen Anora in the market and he'd thought she'd hinted that there was something wrong between her and Farold.
I WASN'T mistaken,
he told himself, even while he remembered that later, at the hearing in Bowden's house, Anora had denied it, leaving him to sound like a fool—or a liar. He also remembered all the weeping she'd done.

"There's probably something else you should know," Farold said.

"Oh?" Selwyn said testily. "What?"

"She was so angry that she was almost incoherent; but one thing I know she said was 'Just wait until I tell my father.'"

Selwyn let that thought settle in. Bowden knew— or thought he knew—that Farold had disgraced his daughter with Kendra. Another angry father.

But it was hard to think of Bowden when his mind kept going back to Anora. Kind, sweet, gentle Anora. Who, apparently, settled between him and Farold by determining which was the more lucrative match. Who was then willing to switch back when that arrangement failed. Who did a convincing job as the grief-stricken betrothed. Who was willing to call Kendra names and try to beat her with a washbasin. Who at the very least had just ill-wished him, and maybe even threatened him.

He looked down at his hands, at the red welts caused when Anora had snatched the basin away. It seemed Anora was capable of much that he never would have guessed. Slowly he held up fingers seven and eight—two more suspects to add to the list of possible murderers: Anora and her father.

It had been so long since he had slept in a bed instead of on the hard ground that Selwyn overslept. Kendra's parents must have decided he needed the rest, for they didn't wake him.

By the time he got up, it was already light out, and he could smell bread baking—proof that Wilona, at least, was already hard at work.

He dressed, fumbling a bit with the unfamiliarity of women's garb, and arrived in the tavern's common room just in time to see his father—his real father—being settled down into his chair in the corner. People took turns with guard duty, he had learned yesterday, so that his father was watched even while he was asleep. Last night had apparently been the turn of Raedan and his brother Merton. They were just leaving, looking bleary-eyed from the long night.

Good,
Selwyn thought at them.
Suffer.

His late start probably worked out for the best anyway, he thought. To talk to his father at Holt's blacksmith shop this morning he would have had to evade the two brothers—eager to be finished and getting home—as well as Holt. Not much chance, probably, to talk privately. It would be easier here. But he had to speak soon, Selwyn knew. From what people said yesterday, today was the last day. No one believed Selwyn could have survived in the cave this long. At sunset his father would be released, and Selwyn needed to talk to him before he did something foolhardy or irrevocable.

"Good morning," Selwyn said to each of Kendra's parents: Orik, checking the volume of ale left in the barrels, and Wilona, kneading dough in the kitchen. "Shall I take some of your delicious bread in to the prisoner?"

Wilona had to stop to think. "Rowe's not a prisoner," she said, though in Selwyn's estimation anyone who was tied to a chair and guarded all day was a prisoner. "And his wife will be bringing him food shortly."

"At least a drink would be a kindness," Selwyn argued, and Wilona shrugged.

Selwyn filled a cup, and brought it in to his father. He intentionally stood between his father and Orik, and placed his back to Orik before he crouched down by the chair. He couldn't tell his father the truth, not all of it, rushed and with the danger of someone walking in on them at any moment. He whispered, very quietly, "1 have something to tell you. Try not to react."

Until that moment his father had seemed vague and listless, his eyes almost unfocused as though he was hardly aware of the presence of anyone else in the room. Now those eyes locked on to Selwyn's, piercing but wary, as though by pure force of will he could learn all in a moment whatever it was Selwyn had to say.

Selwyn whispered, "Here, drink some of this." And after his father dutifully obeyed, Selwyn said, "Selwyn is alive and well—don't react." He did not think of his father as a demonstrative man, but he could see the hope and joy in that brief intake of breath, and it was crucial that he didn't attract Orik's attention away from the ale barrels. "Trust me," Selwyn continued, "as long as you just continue as before and don't give them any reason to suspect that you've heard any news, all will be well." Not that he had any way to know that for sure.

"Where is he?" Selwyn's father whispered back.

He couldn't very well answer,
Right here.
"Safe," he said instead. "Truly. Drink some more so Orik doesn't become suspicious."

His father's eyebrows went up at that—Kendra calling her father by his given name—but he took a swallow of ale.

Then, because he was asking his father to take so much on faith, Selwyn added, "There's a back way into the caves, on the far side of the Grandfather Hill. A friend came"—Elswyth would probably smack him for daring to call her a friend—"and showed Selwyn to a safe place." Penryth wasn't safe, but he was simplifying.

"You?" Selwyn's father asked.

It took him a moment to untangle this, to realize his father hadn't seen he was an impostor, despite the mistake about Orik's name. He was simply asking whether he—Kendra—was the friend who had shown Selwyn the way out of the cave.

"No." He didn't dare admit the benefactor was a witch, for he didn't want his father to worry. He did the best he could. "Someone who can help him. They have a plan to reveal the true murderer."

His father closed those terrible hungry eyes for a moment. Then he whispered, "I want to believe..."

Selwyn thought back to the day this had all started, when he and his father had been working to clear the field. He said, "Selwyn told me to tell you that you were right about Anora, and you were right about the big, sturdy girl." The joke had been between them that day, with no one else to overhear.

His father closed his eyes again and breathed deeply.

"I must go," Selwyn said, for every sentence—every moment together—increased the likelihood of his making some blunder that would either reveal the truth or make his father decide Kendra was crazy: each bad in its own way. "Tell Nelda so she doesn't worry." He had been planning to go to Bowden's house himself, but after the things Anora had said last night, he feared that might not be safe.

"Thank you," his father said with such heartfelt warmth that Selwyn had to fight the urge to tell him everything, despite the danger. There would be time for that later. He hoped.

He heard a strange whistling that was not quite bird-like, not quite human, and turned to see Farold sitting on the window ledge.

Without acknowledging him, Selwyn went to the back part of the building, to the living quarters. In a moment Farold appeared at that window.

"What have you learned?" Selwyn asked.

"That it's difficult being a bat in a goldfinch's body. I don't know what goldfinches eat, but I still crave bugs, and I still want to eat all night and sleep all day, but goldfinches' eyes aren't that good for seeing at night, and I can't make that little sound that helped me find my way around when I was a bat, and—"

"Farold!" Selwyn said in exasperation. "You're babbling. I meant, did you find out anything important?"

Farold snorted. "You try catching your supper in the dark, and tell
me
that isn't important"

Selwyn clenched his teeth. "Have you found out anything about the murder?"

Farold sighed—loudly. "Wasn't I just trying to explain to you that it took me all night just to eat enough that I'm not faint with hunger?"

It was Selwyn's turn to sigh. "So, nothing," he said. "What you're saying is that you learned nothing."

Farold opened his beak and cawed like a crow.

"Oh, shut up," Selwyn told him. "All right. Since it's all up to me, what I want to do is visit the room where you were murdered."

"If it's all up to you, why are you bothering to tell me?"

"
Farold,
" Selwyn cried in exasperation.

Suddenly Farold began his best imitation of a goldfinch, which Selwyn guessed was purely to be an annoyance, but a moment later he felt Wilona's hand on his shoulder.

"Poor dear," Kendra's mother said. "I know you feel bad about Farold being killed. But you must accept he
is
dead. Get a grip on reality, dear." Shaking her head, she walked away.

Strange sounds were coming out of Farold's goldfinch beak.

"Are you coming with me," Selwyn asked, "or are you going to stand there laughing?"

"Oh, I'll accompany you," Farold said. "I would hate to miss any of the fun."

After Selwyn finished the morning's chores in the tavern, he told Kendra's parents that the nuns at Saint Hilda's had said fresh air was very important to keep goldfinches healthy—especially caged goldfinches. "The two of us are going out for a walk," Selwyn told them. "We'll be back before the customers come."

If Kendra's parents found this odd, they didn't say so.

As he walked down the street carrying the birdcage, people waved and called greetings. Pretty tavern girls, Selwyn decided, could get away with much that would bring ridicule to farmers' sons.

The mill sat alone on the outskirts of Penryth, since it needed to be directly on the stream, and the constant noise of the wheel going around day and night was enough to keep people from building their houses too near.

When Selwyn got there, he looked in the doorway and saw the only customer was Snell's widow. Linton was just tying up a sack of flour for her.
Good,
Selwyn thought. Even better than he had hoped. Widow Snell's hands were gnarled and crippled; she'd need Linton's help to get that flour home. Selwyn walked a little bit farther, to where the cultivated fields started—this would be Raedan and Merton's uncle's, the farm closest to the village. When he turned back, the widow and Linton were already far down the street heading in the opposite direction, Linton lugging the bag of flour over his shoulder.

Selwyn returned to the mill, and only old Derian was there.

Hastily, before Derian looked up, Selwyn glanced around the room. Most of the homes in Penryth didn't have locks, for everybody knew everybody; but many of the businesses did—since it was foolish to tempt people beyond what they could withstand. Selwyn saw a heavy board leaning against the wall by the door and knew that at night that board would be placed into the brackets on either side of the door frame. It would take several men and a great deal of noise and splintering of wood to get through that way. No wonder Thorne had said the murderer must have entered through the window. But it didn't have to be Farold's bedroom window, Selwyn thought, even though that one had been open. He would check them all for signs of forced entry, he thought, if there was time. In this room there was only one window, which faced away from the town—toward that field belonging to Raedan and Merton's uncle.

Now, in his Kendra voice, he said, "Hello." He had to say it twice before Derian looked up and smiled at him. Selwyn continued, "This morning I was thinking I needed to take my songbird out for a walk, and also I've been away for so long I thought I just had to see everything and everybody again."
Don't chatter,
Selwyn told himself.
Don't explain too much.

But Derian didn't comment on what Selwyn had said. He only answered, "Always pleased to have a pretty visitor."

Selwyn felt his face go red, even though Derian was complimenting Kendra, not him. He set the birdcage down on the table, and—as he and Farold had arranged—brushed against the loosely tied binding that held the tiny door closed. "Oh!" Selwyn cried helplessly as the twine fell off and Farold flew out of the cage. "Oh, come back, little bird!" Selwyn felt like a perfect fool, but Derian gallantly jumped to his feet to help.

Farold landed on a stack of flour sacks and waited until Derian was within two steps before taking off again and flying around the room.

Selwyn chased after Farold, but Farold hopped from table to cage top to windowsill.

"Oh, please," Selwyn cried, "close the door and window before he gets out."

Farold flew away from the window but then he went right over Derian's head and out the still-open door. He immediately landed on top of the water barrel by the side of the door.

"Help me!" Selwyn urged Derian, lest the old miller give up.

Derian followed Farold outdoors.

"I'll get the shutters in here," Selwyn called, "in case he comes back in." The shutters, he saw, were fastened by a simple latch. Someone
might
be able to open it from the outside, though Selwyn would have expected scratches on the wood if that were the case, and there weren't any.

Meanwhile, he saw that outside Farold went from the water barrel to a low tree branch. As Derian approached, Farold fluttered to another branch on the other side of the tree, then in a moment flew to sit on top of a nearby bush—all the while enticing Derian to follow by staying almost within reach.