Death of a Dyer by Eleanor Kuhns

to,” Rachel admitted. “I refused. Nate was very good to me.”
    Nate? Not “Master”? Or “Mr. Bowditch”? Rees now understood everything. Rachel was uncommonly beautiful, and Nate only a man.
    “But surely you could remain here as a servant,” Rees said.
    She shook her head, her gaze involuntarily turning upstairs.
    “I see,” he said. She was afraid of Molly, who might, and probably would, turn her out. But only Nate could sell her. Would that now be Richard, as the eldest son and heir? “So, Richard and Augustus grew up together and thought of one another as brothers?”
    She nodded. “Yes.”
    “Isn’t it possible Richard fled to his boyhood friend for protection?” She didn’t speak, her reply in the scarlet of her cheeks. “Does Caldwell know?”
    “No.” The single word exploded from her lips like a shot. She raised her eyes, staring at Rees beseechingly.
    He sighed. “Where in Dugard does your son live?”
    “I don’t know. Nate apprenticed him to the blacksmith behind Wheeler’s Livery.”
    “Amos Isaacs?” Rees asked.
    She nodded. “Yes. I believe he works there still.”
    “But you don’t know,” Rees murmured, staring at her.
    “No. I never visit town and he doesn’t come here.” A solitary tear made its glistening trail down her cheek.
    “Mr. Rees,” Marsh said, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “The constable wants to see you now.”
    Rees glanced quickly at Rachel and followed Marsh from the kitchen.

 
    Chapter Four
    The floor above was much cooler. Fresh air blew through the windows, and Rees paused for a moment, enjoying the crisp relief. Marsh looked back over his shoulder, his expression one of impatience, and Rees fell into step behind him, heading, as he expected, for Nate’s office. The man waiting there turned from the window, and the two men regarded each other with interest. Much shorter than Rees, Caldwell wore a rusty black coat and breeches, dirty stockings, and a linen shirt stained by food. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair was scraped back into a queue from a pockmarked face shining with sweat. But what Rees noticed first and most powerfully was the odor eddying out from the constable: a stink composed of old sweat and new whiskey. Rees circled around, trying to move upwind of the man. Caldwell matched Rees’s movements to keep the distance between them. Removing a toothpick from his pocket, he began worrying at a morsel of food, displaying his stained and rotting teeth.
    “Mrs. Bowditch said you was a friend of the family,” he said, eyeing Rees from tired black-circled eyes.
    “I grew up with Nate Bowditch,” Rees said.
    “She hired you to look into her husband’s death?”
    “She did. I have experience investigating murders,” Rees said, “beginning with my first case while a soldier in the Continental Army.”
    “And you believe that fits you for this now,” Caldwell sneered.
    Rees shrugged. “I’m here, looking into Nate’s murder, whether you like it or not,” he said. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that the local constable opposed him. At that moment, Marsh entered with a tray: homemade doughnuts and cold tea garnished with fresh mint.
    “Don’t you have anything stronger?” Caldwell demanded disdainfully.
    “Whiskey?” Marsh said, glancing at Rees.
    “Not for me.” He picked up a glass of tea and drank. “It’s good,” he said in surprise. “Sweet.” Caldwell grunted. Ignoring the tongs, he helped himself to a doughnut with a grimy paw. Rees stared at the filthy hand, the nails rimmed in black, and refused the plate. Caldwell would never make a weaver; any cloth he wove would quickly be too grubby to sell.
    “What have you learned so far?” Caldwell demanded.
    Rees, temper flaring at the constable’s tone, said, “What makes you think I learned anything?”
    “You were born and raised here. You know everyone. Don’t you?”
    “No,” said Rees. “I don’t know you.”
    “My family moved