The party pulled up as the approach to Nowhere loomed ahead. The cliff walls looked high and menacing, and the narrow way was cast in shadow. It seemed like a vice, meant to close on them. The horses curveted and ducked their heads, sensing unease.
‘Tsk,’ said Angela. ‘No time for all that.’ She nudged Storytime into a canter and rode into the crevasse.
The valley was quiet in the low light, and Angela rode the track fast through the apple trees, Storytime’s hooves throwing up clouds of dust. She looked to either side, hoping for signs of life. A pair of pigeons burst from a treetop but there were no people.
When the farmhouse came into view, Angela pulled Storytime to a halt. He blew and huffed, expressing his disapproval of all this rush. Angela hitched him to the post. She could hear the hooves of the others approaching but she did not want to wait.
She knew, deep down, what she would find. The message was on the air already. Sweet sick rot, decay. When she opened the door to the farmhouse it rolled out in a wave. But it was unthinkable that Angela should not go in – she owed that much to her friend.
Angela spent two or three minutes inside that place, then came out hand to her mouth. The men had arrived and were dismounting. She stood on the step, shaking like a reed. Her husband came to her and placed an arm around her waist.
‘What?’ he asked briefly.
‘I don’t know how to say it.’ She stared ahead then turned her face upwards to him. Her eyes were wide, wider than human eyes should stretch, showing rims of white around the iris. ‘They did have children, Ben,’ she whispered. ‘There are five children in there, with her.’
Jane Dunning had tried to protect them from the knife but it had not been possible. She took all the blows that she could. After he ended his family Thomas Dunning put the knife in his own throat. It was still lodged there.
‘Why would he do it?’ asked Angela, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. The men were inside now and she could hear the sound of retching. ‘Who would do that to children?’ Angela was almost grateful for the stench – it made it easier to believe that this thing had truly happened. ‘She never said a word about her little ones – tome or any of us.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Did he ever mention them?’ she asked, imploring. ‘The children? Did you know?’
Ben shook his head. ‘Dunning never said a word.’
‘Five children kept up here in secret.’ Angela’s mouth set hard then trembled. Her eyes stared at something he could not see. ‘And the little baby, Ben. She had the baby.’
‘Sometimes,’ Ben said, taking her hand, ‘you only know what you know. We cannot always know the reason why.’
‘I know,’ Angela said. ‘The reason why.’ He looked at her uncomprehending, and she saw it then – the distance, the great expanse between his past and hers. ‘Your parents were kind to you,’ Angela said. ‘They always protected you from harm.’
‘They were,’ Ben’s expression was sweet and puzzled. ‘They did.’
Angela smiled and hung her head and tried to breathe.
The search party filed out of the farmhouse. Their faces were white, brows laced with beads of sweat. One man went to the trees to vomit and another quickly stumbled after him.
‘The sheriff must be informed,’ Abel Manton said, wiping his brow. ‘We ride for Boulder.’
Angela drew a deep breath. ‘No.’
‘He must,’ Ben said, gentle.
‘You know what they think of mountain people. They have been waiting for something like this to happen, all this while.’ She turned to Abel Manton. ‘And do you wish to be asked to explain some of the goods you keep up here in their cellar from time to time?’
He looked at her, mouth gaping.
‘Oh, yes, of course I know. Everyone knows.’ Angela’s mouth tightened, but she held her tears at bay. ‘She was my friend. I mourn her deeply. But her murderer is dead, and there is nothing to be gained from outsiders coming in and poking into things. Whatever happened here, she was an innocent and I want her memory preserved as such.’
‘But, Angie—’
Angela crouched down and put her hands over her ears. Her scream rolled all down the valley, high and ragged. Storytime threw up his head, wild-eyed. ‘Questions just unsettle everything,’ Angela said, breathing fast.
It seemed after some discussion that most of the rescue party had at one time or another stored goods which to the law did not exist, in the apple cellar at Nowhere. It was well known in the town that things that did not exist travelled through Nowhere. Did they all want to be associated with these deaths? People make all kinds of assumptions. Someone might suggest that there was a disagreement about the stored goods. Someone might suggest the disagreement became violent. And now Angela had put it like that, they decided, what was the good in sullying the family’s name? They didn’t know what had truly happened here, after all.
‘Better that it was bandits or convicts,’ said Angela. ‘Who is to say it was not? These things happen every day.’
After a moment, everyone nodded. It was agreed.
Angela went through the house, taking away the childish things. There were not many. There were no toys and the children seemed to have all slept together on one straw mattress in a small room. There was one set of clothes for each of them in a dresser. The drawers were labelled with their names.
Angela scrubbed the labels off each drawer.
