Page 22 of Corpse in the Canal

Solomon went to him at once. Constance, her head up, closed in on him, too.

Harvey grasped his arm in a tight grip that was almost painful, his face racked with anguish. “Grey, you will find who did this! My son did not just fall into the canal!”

“No, he did not,” Solomon agreed quietly.

Harvey shook his arm, almost like a terrier. “Then find my son’s murderer, Grey. You have to!”

*

“Wills, the constable, will help us,” Solomon said, as he and Constance walked along the bank of the canal, searching in vain for anything that might indicate the place Percy had entered the water—blood, the tracks of a scuffle or a dragged body.

“I heard Harvey issue the order,” Constance said. “The poor man looked bewildered.”

“A murder around here is unusual, I suppose. Especially the murder of a gentleman. But I don’t think Wills is unwilling or stupid. We just need to talk to him without Harvey’s hovering over him.”

Constance nodded agreement. The doctor had taken Harvey home in his gig, to help in breaking the news to Mrs. Harvey. Constance was not sorry to be absent for that. The poor woman’s pain would be unendurable, and there was nothing anyone could do for her. Constance did not want to even imagine that kind of grief. It opened a welter of warnings, alarms, and doubts.

What should I do? What should I do?

Ruthlessly, she squashed the panic, distracting herself with the business in hand. They were here to find Percy Harvey’s killer, and she would give that her all before she let personal possibilities consume her.

“We don’t need to feel guilty,” Solomon said beside her, “just because we admitted we did not care for what we knew of the dead man.”

Since there was no one around, she took his hand. Solomon was too observant. He had seen that something more than the crime was disturbing her. It wasn’t even a bad guess, although it barely scratched the surface.

“Oh, I don’t really,” she said. “I was wondering if we shouldn’t stay at an inn instead of with the Harveys. The last thing they need is strangers around the house at such a time.”

Solomon nodded, returning to his perusal of the ground at his feet, and across on the other side of the canal, which swept on into the distance before curving around and eventually rejoining the Grand Union Canal. This was known as the Everett-Channing loop, apparently.

They were approaching a much more opulent, brightly painted barge than Fred Baines’s. This one was moored on the near side of the canal, with space for several more boats to tie up. From these moorings, a path led straight toward an elegant old manor house.

“Larchford House,” murmured Constance, who had been speaking to the lockkeeper’s wife over her garden hedge. “Sir Felix Everett’s property. I believe his grandfather built this section of canal at the end of the last century, to join Channing and other towns with the Grand Union Canal. He still owns it and employs the lockkeepers.”

Solomon nodded again. He was gazing upward at the humped bridge that led over the canal from the end of the path to the opposite bank. He paused for a moment, then climbed up the steps.

Constance followed him. “Are you thinking he was shot on the bridge and heaved over the side into the water?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?” Solomon said. “I suppose it depends how well planned the murder was.”

“Surely it can’t have been that well planned when Percy only arrived on Thursday and was already in the canal by five o’clock in the afternoon when the lock was filled for Baines’s boat.”

“It was planned enough to fill Percy’s pockets with stones in the hope of weighing him down,” Solomon said grimly.

“That looks like panic to me,” Constance said, “not planning.”

“You may be right. I can’t see anything here to show it’s where he went in. I wonder if they can dredge the canal in search of the weapon?”

“I’m sure Harvey can arrange it. Do you want to walk the other side of the canal while we’re here?”

“It rained several times on Thursday,” Solomon said. “I suspect any tracks are already spoiled, and tomorrow will do. We should probably go back to Channing House, collect our baggage, and find a decent inn.”

They walked back toward the town until they reached the road to Channing House and Constance began to feel the oppressive weight of death and grief closing in on her. At the front of the house, the curtains had all been drawn, leaving the windows dark and blank. A black ribbon had been tied to the knocker, and when the servant opened the door, he already wore a black armband around his liveried sleeve. The heavy hall mirror had been turned with its glass to the wall.

“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Harvey?” Solomon asked the footman.

“In the drawing room, sir. They have asked that you join them there.”

“Has the doctor left?” Constance asked.