Maritime Murder by Steve Vernon Page B

George was caught up in the horrifying act of murder. He struck her many times with the tomahawk. And then the two brothers made their way back to the house.
    They found Catherine trying to climb out the window. George looked at her strangely. “Catherine,” he began to say, the bloodlust momentarily abated. “I can explain this.”
    He reached out to her, as if he were going to help her escape. Catherine turned from him in utter revulsion. John knew what needed to be done. He took the tomahawk from George’s hand and struck Catherine down.
    â€œNo,” George said, stepping between his brother and his fiancée. “I can’t let you do this.”
    The two brothers stared at each other fiercely.
    â€œLet me explain to her,” George argued. “She will understand.”
    â€œWhat is there to explain?” John asked. “That we killed her father for his money? Do you think she will hug you for that?”
    Coming to his senses, George reluctantly held his fiancée until his brother finished grimly and methodically butchering her.
    â€œLet’s look for the money,” John said.
    George stared down at what remained of his fiancée.
    â€œShe is dead now,” John said. “There’s nothing can be done about it. Let’s look for the money.”
    George remained unmoved.
    â€œThat’s what we came for, isn’t it?” John pleaded. “Let’s look for the money.”
    The Boutilier brothers completely ransacked the old man’s house to absolutely no avail. After nearly an hour of frantic searching all they had found was about £ 10 in small coins, a few bits of cheap jewellery, the wedding rings, and a piece of small, red chalk that was in old Eminaud’s pocket.
    â€œWhy keep that?” John asked.
    â€œIt’s better than nothing,” George replied. “It will come in handy for something, you bet.”
    After the search, the brothers dragged the family together in the kitchen. They heaped straw over the bodies and doused the straw in oil from the lamps.
    â€œLet’s go,” John said. George threw the match that set the house afire.
    The two brothers strapped snowshoes backwards onto their moccasined feet. “This backwards trick will surely keep the trackers guessing,” John said. “It will drive them mad trying to figure out which way we went.”
    â€œI’m not so sure about that,” George said. He followed his brother into the woods, not daring to look back at the burning farmhouse. If there were any tears lingering in his eyes, he blamed it on the winter cold.

A Rude Awakening
    At four in the morning, Nicholas Eisenhaur awoke suddenly from a dream of falling autumn leaves. The walls of his bedroom were lit with an unholy orange glow. When he looked out of his bedroom window he realized that the home of his good friend, George Frederick Eminaud, was burning to the ground.
    Let me tell you a bit about the geography of the area. There are two peninsulas reaching out into the water, like the fingers of a dead man. Nicholas Eisenhaur lived on Second Peninsula, across the water from Eminaud, who lived on First Peninsula. Eisenhaur and his neighbour, Joseph Contoy, set out across the icebound stretch of water together.
    â€œBy the time we arrived at Eminaud’s house, it was almost burned to the ground,” Contoy later testified. “Little remained besides the stone chimney, and even that was teetering.”
    As far as saving the house, there was nothing that could be done.
    The two men, Eisenhaur and Contoy, went to the nearby house of Eminaud’s son. Young Frederick followed the two men to his father’s home. By the early pre-dawn glimmer, they spotted the remains of old Eminaud, perched upon an unburned floor beam. The floorboards themselves had completely burned away.
    Eminaud’s arms and legs had been burned off from the severe heat of the flames. Only part of his