The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,170

help me, as they had planned to be on the road to Inwood.”

“The man who knocked you down?” Bo said.

“His friend called him Sundance,” Esther said. “And he called his friend Butch. I may have some photographs, but I won’t know until they’re developed. And, oh, I have something you might find of interest.”

When Wong brought the tea, he also brought a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.

Esther handed it to Dutch. “Sundance dropped this when he fell on me.”

Dutch unwrapped the parcel and whistled. A Colt revolver. He spun the cylinder and removed the bullets.

Bo said, “Esther, you got a good look at them. You think you and Sergeant Lowry – he’s a good sketcher – can come up with what the two mutts look like? It’ll get on the front page of every newspaper in the city. It’s a good bet, even in the country.”

9

Inwood Hill Park was desolate in winter. Evenings were formidable. Snow shrouded steep hills, and rocky battlements and sharp ridges jutted like monsters in brittle moonlight. When the prevalent winter winds weren’t howling, a good listener could hear the crunch and rustle of wild animals prowling through the fallen twigs and branches.

Only in the summer was the desolation mitigated. The park became dense with vegetation, thick with a forest of tulip trees, hickory and oak, the air filled with bird song and the buzz of bees.

Because of the country atmosphere and the cool breezes in this northernmost corner of Manhattan, summer brought the owners of assorted mansions – boarded up in winter – to Inwood, and it was for the wealthy that, near where the Harlem and Hudson Rivers meet, the New York Central Railroad created the Dyckman Street stop.

The influx of the wealthy, and the rocky nature of the land, did not discourage the active fruit and vegetable and dairy farms in Inwood. These thrived in the summer when the slopes of the year-round farms became green, and corn stalks could reach the height of the abundance of fruit trees. Milk cows lowed, joined by the occasional na-na-na of goats.

It was to one of these farms that Robbie and Harry directed Jack West. “De Grout,” Harry said.

The road had been treacherous due to the many ruts caused by run-offs from melting, then freezing snow and ice, but West had excellent control over his horses and the carriage. The bulky crates the men had collected at Missus Taylor’s boarding house were tied to the roof of the carriage and served as good ballast. There was precious little daylight remaining when the horses pulled the carriage up the long drive, passing the weathered, two-legged sign that said: BOWERIE DE GROUT.

Only the carriage lamps and the thin yellow beam from a kerosene lantern near the gate marked their way to the front of the farmhouse. The house itself was weathered clapboard, turned grey from the elements over the previous century. Dutch style, in need of paint, and sprawling, with added-on extensions.

Smoke rose from three chimneys; light flickered in the windows. Beyond the house was a large barn and farther on, sheds and outbuildings, a fenced-in corral, and fields rising into the hills.

A grizzled old man came out of the barn as the carriage drove up the narrow road leading to the front of the house. He picked up the lantern and waited till Jack West reined-in the horses.

Harry was first out of the carriage and greeted the old man, “Evening, pappy.” He opened the door and stepped into the house.

After unhitching the horses, Jack West slipped the old man two penny coins. “Feed them at the same time. The mare gets jealous. Some oats, but only a taste of water. I’ll be out to see to them in a while.”

Robbie had already begun unstrapping the crates from the roof of the carriage, and with Jack’s help set them on the ground. Harry, it appeared, had found something more important to do.

“A long sight easier than putting them up.” Robbie pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. He offered it to Jack, who declined.

“I’m a cigar man,” Jack said, sniffing. The rich smell of roasting hens was spilling from the open door, where an old woman stood smiling. She beckoned them inside to the warmth of the great room and the hearty fire that burned in a huge old hearth.

Jack West was curious by nature. He liked to think that there was little he didn’t know about his city. But he was less familiar with Inwood than he was