He untied Fredericks’s horse then and led the gelding in the other direction, well past the lane that led to the Hardman cottage. It was beginning to snow in earnest, but the flakes were small and hard and only skittered across the hard-packed road, the wind making thin white lines on the dirt.
Being in the open, in possession of a fresh corpse, was never comfortable, but it was particularly uneasy work when in the vicinity of white people, who were inclined to think everyone’s private business was also theirs. Luckily, the cold weather had kept the body from swelling, and it wasn’t making eerie noises yet.
There it was: the tall pine, black against the snow-lit sky. He’d trampled down a patch of brush on his previous visit and now led the horse carefully into it, and between two close-spaced saplings. The horse was suspicious, but did follow, and one of the saplings gave way with a crack.
“Good, a charaid,” he murmured. “Nay more than another minute, all right?”
Beyond the scrim of oak and pine saplings, the land plunged down into a small ravine. He’d counted the steps to the edge of it on his first visit, and a good thing; the light was poor and the ravine full of brush and straggly small trees.
He tied up the horse a safe distance from the edge, then untied Fredericks and hauled him off, dropping him to the ground with a thud like a killed buffalo. Ian dragged the late Justice to the edge of the ravine, then went back to the foot of the big pine to retrieve the broken dead branch he’d selected earlier. The stick he’d used before was clearly from a fruit tree; he pulled it out and put it in his pouch for later disposal.
He wondered whether there was a Gaelic charm or prayer to cover the disposal of the body of someone ye’d murdered, but if there was, he didn’t know it. The Mohawk had prayers, all right, but they didn’t bother much wi’ the dead.
“I’ll ask Uncle Jamie later,” he said to Fredericks, under his breath. “And if there is one, I’ll say it for ye. For now, though, ye’re on your own.”
He felt his way over the cold, hard face, located the empty eye socket, and drove the sharp end of his branch into it as hard as he could. The scrape of bark and wood on bone and then the sudden yielding raised the hairs across his shoulders and down his arms.
Then he dragged the body to the edge of the ravine and pushed it over. For a moment, he feared it wouldn’t move, but it slid on the pine needles and, after a long moment, rolled almost lazily, once, twice, and disappeared into the brush at the bottom with a muffled crunch that was scarcely to be heard above the rising wind.
He was tempted to keep the horse; if anyone noticed it, he could just say he’d found it wandering on the road. But if he—and the horse—were to remain in company with Silvia Hardman and her weans in Philadelphia, it was too dangerous, and he took the horse back to the road and bade it farewell with a slap on the rump. He watched it go, then turned round and began to jog up the road in the thickening snow.
78
Thee Smells of Blood
IAN HAD COME IN quietly—like an Indian, Rachel thought—sometime past midnight, crouching by the bed and blowing softly in her ear to rouse her, lest he startle her and wake Oggy. She’d hastily checked the latter, then swung her feet out of bed and rose to embrace her husband.
“Thee smells of blood,” she whispered. “What has thee killed?”
“A beast,” he whispered back, and cupped her cheek in his palm. “I had to, but I’m no sorry for it.”
She nodded, feeling a sharp stone forming in her throat.
“Will ye come out wi’ me, mo nighean donn? I need help.”
She nodded again and turned to find the cloak she used for a bedgown. There was a sense of grimness about him, but something else as well, and she couldn’t tell what it was.
She was hoping that he hadn’t brought the body home with the expectation that she would help him bury or hide it, whatever—or whoever—it was, but he had just killed something he considered to be evil and perhaps felt himself pursued.
She was therefore taken aback when she followed him into the tiny parlor of their rooms and found a scrawny woman with a battered face and three grubby, half-starved children clothed in rags, pressed together on the sofa like a row of terrified owls.
“Friend Silvia,” Ian said softly, “this is my wife, Rachel.”
“Friend?” Rachel said, astonished but heartened. “Thee is a Friend?”
The woman nodded, uncertain. “I am,” she said, and her voice was soft, but clear. “We are. I am Silvia Hardman, and these are my daughters: Patience, Prudence, and little Chastity.”
“They’ll be needing something to eat, mo chridhe. And then maybe—”
“A little hot water,” Silvia Hardman blurted. “Please. To—to wash.” Her hands were clenched on her knees, crumpling the faded homespun, and Rachel gave the hands a quick look—possibly she had helped Ian in his killing? The stone was hard in her throat again, but she nodded, touching the smallest of the little girls, a pretty, round-faced babe somewhere between one and two, more than half asleep on a sister’s lap.
“Right away,” she promised. “Ian—get thy mother.”
“I’m here,” Jenny said from behind her. Her voice was alert and interested. “I see we’ve got company.”
RACHEL WENT AT once to the sideboard and found bread and cheese and apples, which she distributed to the two older girls; the little one had fallen sound asleep, so Rachel lifted her gently and took her into the bedroom, where she tucked her in beside Oggy. The little girl was grimy and thin, her dark curls matted, but she was otherwise in good condition, and her sweet round face had an innocence that Rachel thought her sisters had long since lost.
The why of that became apparent directly.
Jenny had ignored food and brought Silvia Hardman hot water, soap, and a towel. Silvia was washing herself, slowly and thoroughly, her brows drawn together in concentration, looking at nothing.
Ian glanced briefly at her, and then explained the situation to Rachel and his mother simply and bluntly, despite the presence of the children. Rachel glanced at the little girls and raised her brows at her husband, but he merely said, “They were there,” and continued.
“So I got rid of him,” he concluded. “Ye dinna need to ken how or where.” One of the girls let out a little sigh of what might have been relief or sheer exhaustion.
“Aye,” Jenny said, dismissing this. “And ye couldna leave them where they were, in case someone came looking for the man and found him too close.”
“Partly that, aye.” Despite the hour and the fact that he had spent the previous day and half the night engaged in what must have been very strenuous activity, Ian seemed wide awake and in full possession of his faculties. He smiled at his mother. “Uncle Jamie told me that if Friend Silvia was to be in any difficulty, I was to take care of it.”
Silvia Hardman began to laugh. Very quietly, but with a distinct edge of hysteria. Jenny sat down beside her, put her arm around Silvia’s shoulders, and Silvia stopped laughing abruptly. Rachel saw that her hands, still wet and slippery with soap, were shaking.
“Does thee believe in angels, Rachel?” Silvia asked. Her voice was low and slightly distorted because of her swollen lip.