“But you seemed to make it your business until he mentioned the school,” Brom speaks up.
The constable squints at Brom.“You.You know, when I saw you a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t put two and two together.But you’re Abraham Van Brunt.You know we turned this whole town over looking for you years ago.We thought you’d been murdered.Taken.Beaten by marauders.And here you are just waltzing back into Sleepy Hollow like you had only left for an evening stroll.”
“You should be happy that one of your beloved citizens is back,” Crane snipes at him.“Or would you have preferred him to turn up dead?”
“Easy there…,” the constable says, raising his hands.“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Crane says, staring down his nose at him with disdain.“Professor Ichabod Crane.”
The constable leans back farther in his chair.“Well, Mr.Crane, what do you suppose I do about this girl’s death?”
“Lotte,” I tell him, hating how blasé he’s being.“Her name was Lotte.”
“Go to the school and collect the body,” Crane says.“Run an autopsy.”
“An autopsy,” the constable laughs, getting to his feet.“For a suicide with witnesses?”
“She may have been drugged or poisoned,” Crane explains.
“May haveisn’t good enough for me,” he says.“Besides, that’s a matter for the school.What goes on at the institute doesn’t involve me unless the sisters bring it to my attention.Until then, I stay out of their hair.”
“But they’re just going to sweep this under the rug,” I say.“You watch, I bet they won’t come into town and tell you about it.”
“And that would be their prerogative, Ms.Van Tassel.Now, if you don’t mind, there’s a murderer on the loose.The three of you don’t seem too concerned about that.”
“Should we be?”Crane asks, egging him on.“What are you doing to keep Sleepy Hollow safe from another attack from the horseman?”
The constable rolls his eyes.“Enough with the ghost stories.The headless horseman is just the legend of Sleepy Hollow, nothing more.This is a murderer, a sick human.I expected more from a teacher, quite frankly.”He tilts his head.“Then again, you do teach atthatschool.You’re a queer bunch up there, that’s all I’ll say.”
“Please, just pay the school a visit,” I say, putting my hands together.“Look around.What if this happens again?”
“Another suicide?”he laughs.“Is your academic schedule really so difficult?No.I know my place, and my place is protecting the citizens of Sleepy Hollow.That school is legally outside the town’s boundaries and my jurisdiction as it is.If you really want to take it up with someone, take it up with Pleasantville police.Pay a visit to the pickle factory while you’re there.”He comes around the desk and gestures to the door.“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a murderer to catch.”
“Well, he was very rude,” I mutter as we leave the station and step back onto the street, the door swinging closed behind us.Normally the constable is fairly even-keeled and friendly.
“Rude and as useless as tits on a bull,” Crane says, putting his hand on my lower back.“But he’s probably right about the school being out of his jurisdiction.Perhaps we should take it up with the police in Pleasantville.Perhaps they’re not as intimidated by the sisters as the constable seems to be.If we get Snowdrop another day, we could make it back to campus before dark.”
I nod as I mount Gunpowder, noticing how Brom is standing still and staring at the constable through the front window of the police station.
“Brom?”I ask as Crane gets on the horse behind me.
Brom keeps staring straight ahead until he finally looks up at me.His eyes are dark and shadowed, but there’s a chilling twist to his lips as he meets my gaze.
“Brom?”I say again, feeling uneasy this time.
He just nods at me and unties Daredevil, swinging up on the stallion’s back.“Let’s go.”
We trot down Main Street with Brom in the lead until the road curves and leaves the town behind.By the old manor house it splits, with one road leading south to Tarrytown and the other going north to Pleasantville.
We’re cantering on the road north, going past carriages and other riders, until the road enters a forest of orange and yellow maples, and there’s a large coach up ahead turning around, the horses pulling it looking agitated as they try to navigate the narrow road.
“What seems to be the problem?”Brom yells up ahead at the coach.
The driver in a top hat shakes his head.“Road is blocked.Can’t get past.”
He maneuvers the coach around and toward us by going into a ditch briefly, and then we see the problem.A massive sycamore tree has fallen across the road, blocking it completely.
“When did this happen?”Crane asks.
