Fisk
When we came down to breakfast the next morning Belmont informed me, for what must have been the eighth time, that he would figure out how I'd managed to guess the right cards next time, and I once again reminded him that I wouldn't be playing cards tonight. I'd earned enough to pay for our room and meals for the next few days–even without accounting for the number of meals we seemed not to need to pay for, and if I couldn't travel to find new marks, then I would have to wait for them to come to me, meaning I wouldn't take my cards back out until Belmont had a fresh set of patrons. I quite literally couldn't afford to let the trick get old while we still needed to pay for a room.
Aaron had cooked again, thought this time we paid for the meal. Michael seemed to have come to the conclusion the previous night that Aaron was, in fact, of at least average intelligence, and was now watching him intently. It clearly made Aaron nervous, and he fumbled with people's plates more than once. After letting it go on a few minutes I kicked Michael under the table and hissed, "Stop scaring him."
Michael's only response was to frown before focusing on his own food.
I knew I would regret it later, but Belmont seemed to be more attached to Aaron than was usual for a business owner and his workers, and I doubted we would find another inn willing to house an unredeemed man if Michael wore out Belmont's kindness harassing his favorite helper. From what I could tell the trail was already ice cold, and it would distract Michael from Aaron, so I resigned myself to exactly what I had hoped to avoid the past few days.
"Michael, today we should speak to the families employing Carter and Mary Portman. Maybe we can find some relation between the two of them."
The frown melted away almost instantly, replaced by an idiotic, triumphant grin. "'Tis too enticing to let the mystery go, isn't it?"
Not by a long shot, but between the two mysteries I didn't want Michael sticking his nose into, this seemed like the one where he might get himself into less trouble for the time being. "I don't recall the name of the woman Mary worked for, but we could ask for Cedric Goodman's address. The town at large may not trust us, but I'm sure Belmont will let us know."
Michael nodded and waved the man over who, in fact, did let us know. I didn't know if I was happy or not with how easily he handed the address over, though it was certainly annoying that he wished us good luck so enthusiastically.
Goodman's home was on the far side of town. Away from the mines, like all wealthy homes in Cranbor. Even if your money came from the mines, there was no reason to be so close to them if you could afford it. My understanding was that he ran a shipping business, and as the Cranbor mines had been his primary customer, he set up in town. Cranbor wasn't by any major rivers, let alone the ocean, and the coal was by no means easy to transport. For him to afford such a nice home meant he must have been a very resourceful businessman. Or a shady one. One who killed his own employee to protect his business secrets? But that left no explanation for why the sheriff's cousin had died.
The outside of his home impressed me. It was the sort of elaborate fair that a commoner might look as and think was little more than your average home, until you looked closely and noticed the hundreds of little details that made it far more beautiful than a house that had been plainly painted. Far more expensive too. I knocked on Goodman's front door expecting the man to be a ruthless climber.
I couldn't have been further off.
The man who opened the door had an incredibly slight build, and at first I mistook him for hired help. He looked between the two of us, confused. But I saw no signs of recognition, so he must not have known we were the main suspects in the murders, which would make it easier to get him to talk to us. I opened my mouth to introduce ourselves, but Michael beat me to it.
"Good morning, sir. We were hoping that me might be able to speak with Master Goodman about the poor boy who was killed while working here."
Tact was Michael's specialty.
The man, to his credit, didn't close the door on us, but he didn't respond either, and Michael went on.
"My friend and I would like to help bring justice to this man, if you would be willing to assist us. I'm a knight errant, you see, and this is my squire, Fisk."
I wondered if Michael did realized he had forgotten his own name, or if he left it out on purpose to avoid connecting himself with the rumors going around town.
Most often, when they learned of Michael's choice of career, people laughed. Or regarded him as though he was insane. This man gaped, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he tried to form a sensible response to that senseless claim. I thought me might stand in the doorway doing his best impression of a fish for hours, but a woman came up and smacked him on the back of the head.
"Respond you twit."
From how she dressed I had no doubt this was Goodman's wife, and she held herself with the confidence of someone who always got what she wanted. I could only hope she didn't want us gone.
The man stuttered, then gave us a quick bow. "Sorry, sirs. I'm Master Goodman. You… you want to talk about Harold? Come right in."
Mistress Goodman, who must not have heard Michael's first proclamation, snorted. "The sheriff already came by asking about him, and Cedric told him all we knew. What's your angle?"
My whole perspective of the two shifted, and I now thought I understood how the Goodmans had seen such success. A timid man like Master Goodman would look like an easy mark for merchant, be he unscrupulous or not. It wouldn't be until they sat down to work out a deal that Mistress Goodman would take over the negotiations, for I now realized that this harsh woman was the true head of their business.
"We've spoken with the sheriff as well," I told her. "I don't doubt that he did his best, but my friend and I have had some experience in cases like this one, and we thought we might be able to pick up some details he had missed. Perhaps find a link between your stable boy and the woman who was killed the day after."
The woman snorted. "We never heard her name before she died."
"But we've heard a bit about her business," I started, and the lady finished for me before Michael could expose my lie.
"So if that boy had been involved in any of the same business, then it would provide some shared trait between the murders. Very well. The sheriff hasn't been back since that woman was killed, so you might as well ask." She patted her husband's shoulder. "Keep them entertained, dear. I'll be finishing up… tidying the office."
She had paperwork to attend to. But I was relieved to see we would be dealing with only her husband. I preferred asking questions to answering them, and something told me that attempting to interview her would end with her prying every bit of personal information she could out of me and Michael.
Goodman waited until his wife had gone upstairs before talking. "I'd be…" He paused there, and took a deep breath before continuing more confidently, which still wasn't enough to make him sound difficult to walk all over. "I would be glad to help you. Harold was a sweet boy. If there's anything more I can do to bring his killer to justice… he could have made it home safely if I'd only insisted he could pick his work back up in the morning."
"'Tis not your fault," Michael assured him. "You had no way of knowing what would happen."
"And if he was being targeted, it wouldn't have mattered where he was," I added. "Besides, no one assumes they should let people off work early on a regular basis."
Michael's words seemed to be a much greater comfort to the man, which wasn't uncommon. Reasoning was my specialty. Reasoning and fast talking. But when it came to emotional appeals, Michael always seemed to have a better effect on a person. The two of us, after all, had said more or less the same thing.
"Why don't you two come in?" Goodman stepped back from his doorway to reveal an impressive mess for an upscale home. "We just had tea. It's a little cold now, but I can fetch it for you, if you'd like."
"Are your servants unable to brew anymore?" I asked. I'd no doubt that he could easily afford to, but I was more interested in the implication that he was the one handling the tea.
"Well, they're not here," Goodman confessed, confirming my suspicions. That would explain the clutter building up around his house, too. "I've had them stay home since we lost Harold. He worked closer to the mines, which is where we get our shipments, but if he was killed because he worked for me, then I don't want to risk forcing any of my workers out of their homes until this has been settled."
No doubt his wife kept the workers needed for their business on the job, but one could go a day or two without someone to clean or cook for you.
"Do you think that's why Harold was attacked? Because he worked for you?" Michael asked.
"I don't know why anyone would have a personal grudge against him. Hold on."
Goodman disappeared into another room, and I made use of his absence to seat myself in a cushioned chair in the entryway. A minute later he came out with two mugs of cold tea. Having already seemed presumptuous in asking about fresh cuts, I took one to avoid coming off as ungrateful.
"Harold didn't make enemies?" Michael verified before taking a sip from his mug. Judging from his grimace the tea had grown too bitter, but he still murmured a half-hearted thanks for it.
"He didn't. I don't think he made many friends either. I hired him about six months ago, and he kept to himself in that time. He was a kind boy, but he seemed reluctant to open up to others."
"Then do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?" Michael prodded.
"Not that I know of, but it's possible. My wife and I, people don't like dealing with us much, though most of our business is done out of town and we always make fair deals with the miners. It doesn't do to have enemies in your own town. The only man we regularly work with here is the man who owns the mines, and he's a good friend of ours." Worthington, the man who framed my brother-in-marriage of bribery, had been a good friend too, but I held my tongue. "It could just as easily have been a disgruntled employee, or one of the poorer men from town. The last murder in Cranbor was a burglar who was seen sneaking out of a house he had robbed, and hit the would-be witness too hard over the head while trying to get away." He paused. "Though I suppose it's unlikely that the same thing would happen twice in a single week. Especially when it's been so long since anyone died."
Especially when it had been so long since there was any major crime. Cranbor had to have it's share of poor, but to think that someone would commit murder for money when, supposedly, there hadn't been so much as a burglary in years was hard for me to believe. I still went along with what Goodman said, if only because it might have had some insight into the town that we lacked as strangers passing through.
"The other victim worked in a wealthy family too, so it could be something to do with that. I would hope not, though. If the only thing we can discern about our killer is that they don't like the wealthy, then that doesn't narrow down our suspects much." I couldn't even begin to count the number of people I knew who had automatically disliked those with too much money. Even Jack, who had always been happy to see someone with a heavy coin purse, expected them to be stupid more than he did pleasant. "I don't suppose you know the other—"
"I never met Jeffery Wilson, nor his wife Delilah, so if you think we might have a common enemy going after our employees, we don't," Goodman told us in a sort of practiced manner that told us that even if the sheriff hadn't come back to question him again, his neighbors had. "And I don't think Harold knew the woman who was killed. He didn't talk to the other servants any more than he had to, and as far as I know he went straight home after work. He was still living with his family, too, although I remember hearing once that he was looking for a house of his own."
Without knowing what sort of life Mary Portman led, I didn't know what else to ask about Harold. We hadn't exactly gone at this from the fresh angle I'd proposed. I tried to sound professional, asking what Goodman knew about Harold's daily to day life and, more importantly, what he had done the day he died, but it didn't get me anywhere. Harold didn't seem to be someone who had much of a life outside of work, and hadn't acted any different in the last day of his life. All that told me was that he likely hadn't expected to die. Or at least hid his fear. When I ran out of ideas for what to ask I thanked him for his time and said, "One last thing. Would you by any chance know the address to Mistress Wilson or Harold's homes?"
He had Harold's on record, and got Miss. Wilson's from his wife.
Michael and I didn't discuss who to see next. We both agreed without needing to say it aloud that it would be easier to talk to the woman who lost an employee than the woman who lost a son. Wilson's house was also much closer to Goodman's than the Carter home was. A bit closer to the mines than his home, and the house itself was smaller, but still large enough to warrant servants. And judging by the gardener in the side yard, the master of this household wasn't afraid that her other servants might be targeted.
I thought it might be easier to call out to the gardener, but Michael strode up to the door and knocked, so we waited for someone to open it. The young lady who opened the door recoiled when she saw him, clearly someone who had heard the rumors and recognized the man they described, and shrank back as Michael explained he was a knight errant in search of justice for the late Mary Portman. Whem the girl closed to door before going to get her employer, I expected her to lock it, as well as any other entrances into the house.
Instead, the door opened a minute later, revealing a woman who looked familiar in two ways. The first was that she had the same shrewish demeanor as Goodman's wife. The second was that this woman was the same on we had seen arguing with the deputy at the sheriff's office.
