The Language of the Dead Read Free Page A

Blackwell’s house. “This is the deceased’s cottage, sir,” he continued. “His niece, Lydia Blackwell, is inside. They’ve lived here together for many years. Miss Blackwell is rather taken out, I’m afraid, as she has seen the deceased’s body. She is lying down at the moment, on the order of Mr. Winston-Sheed, who looked in on her on his way to examine the deceased. Sergeant Wallace has instructed several uniformed constables to stand by the house and let no one in other than yourself and other officials of the law. He has asked me to guide you to the scene of the crime. I’m afraid it’s up the hill a bit.” He hesitated again, then said: “Unless, of course, you’d rather talk to Miss Blackwell first.”
    Harris’s brisk thoroughness impressed Lamb, though he found Harris’s reference to Will Blackwell as “the deceased” irritating. He wondered if Harris always spoke as if he were giving evidence at an inquest.
    â€œNo, no,” he said. “Lead on, please, Harris.”
    Harris saluted again and gestured toward the path by the bridge. “Right this way, sir.”
    As Lamb turned toward the hill, he heard Vera call him. “Dad!”
    He turned to see her approaching along the High Street from the western end of the village, where she kept her daily vigil in the Quimby Parish Council hall, watching for any sign of a German invasion. She was dressed in the denim overalls and soft service cap the government issued to members of the Local Defense Volunteers.
    A young man dressed in dark slacks and a bone-colored sweater kept pace with Vera. His right arm was missing from the elbow downand the right sleeve of his shirt was pinned back at the shoulder. He appeared to be no more than twenty. Lamb wondered if he had lost his arm at Dunkirk—though Dunkirk had only just happened.
    Vera embraced her father briefly and kissed his cheek. They hadn’t seen each other in more than a week, when Vera had spent most of a Sunday with Marjorie and Lamb at home in Winchester.
    â€œHello, Vera,” he said, smiling. He missed her presence around the house. Even so, he kept his tone businesslike, so as not to embarrass her. “Your mother sends her love.”
    Vera smiled back. “Love to mother,” she said. She was a slender girl, with a youthful face, though Lamb had long believed that she possessed what people sometimes called an “old soul”—a seriousness of purpose and wisdom beyond her years. She had big, bright brown eyes and smiled often and was capable of great stubbornness in defense of ideas and people she respected or loved. She glanced toward Blackwell’s cottage. “It’s terrible what’s happened,” she said.
    â€œYes,” Lamb said. “Did you know him?”
    â€œNot really. I heard, though, that he was just a quiet old man.”
    â€œHe was a bit more than that,” said the young man. He was slender and, Lamb thought, quite handsome, with luxuriant black hair that was a bit longer than normal and dark eyes that seemed fired with emotion.
    â€œDad, this is Arthur Lear,” Vera said. “He and his father have a farm near the village.” Vera smiled at Arthur Lear in a way that left Lamb feeling unsettled.
    Arthur extended his lone hand—his left—and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said.
    â€œThe pleasure’s mine,” Lamb said, shaking Arthur’s hand.
    â€œWell, we should let you go, Dad,” Vera said. “I’m sure you’re busy and we don’t want to get in the way. We only heard an hour or so ago.”
    Seeing her father had left Vera feeling more conflicted than she’d guessed it would. She might have come without Arthur—kept him a secret. She probably should have done. Her feelings about him had begun to change recently, and she’d begun to worry if she’d done the right thing in