Cape Cod Noir - By David L Ulin Page 0,21
only to make sure the cudgel she kept behind her bar was at hand when violence broke out. Something in Stratton’s carriage, and that of men like him, alerted her, like dark clouds and a drop in the barometer told of a storm. If Adam Seaver was a man to rely quietly on his reputation, retaliating privately and viciously, Samuel Stratton wore his aggression as a cloak, flourishing it at every opportunity, spoiling for trouble.
She recognized him as the man who had beaten the boy.
Stratton looked well enough—tall and hale and dark—and he seated her with a gruff and rusty courtesy. This she understood was a rarity, a gesture to Seaver’s presence and Browne’s influence. It extended only that far; for as soon as the tavern-keeper’s wife deposited their dinner on the table and left, he ignored Anna and turned to Seaver.
“My works have been bedeviled of late. My still and stores were destroyed in the fire, and I can’t supply Mr. Browne nor pay him his interest until I rebuild. If you’d convey that to him, I’d be obliged.” Stratton used his knife to joint the roast bird, and then forswore cutlery as he ate the wing, using the tablecloth to wipe his fingers. “I may be delayed for months.”
Seaver helped Anna to a plate of oysters, but took nothing for himself. “And the nature of this devilry?”
“Petty theft, and worse: arson and murder. My man was burned alive, trapped in the building when it went up.”
Suddenly, Anna was reminded of another fire, long ago. Just before Bram had left.
“Someone has a grudge against you,” Seaver said. The humor in his words suggested this was no surprise.
Stratton only grunted. “Someone will pay for it, when I find ’em.” He threw the bones down, and rubbed his greasy hands together. The light in his eyes caused Anna to turn to her plate. “I think I know who it is. A little weasel I thought I could get cheap. A smith with ideas too big for him. I’ll string him up by his balls, and when I’m done with him, hungry seagulls won’t touch what’s left.”
Bram. Panic seized Anna.
“Interesting,” Seaver said. “I’d like to inspect the site. I am required in Boston shortly, but I would present a full report of your troubles to Mr. Browne, and your request to—once again—delay payment.”
At this invocation of Browne’s name, Stratton grew less agitated, more unsure. “Thank you.”
Anna and Seaver left shortly thereafter, claiming fatigue, and returned to their inn across the harbor.
“What think you of our host?” Seaver extracted his pipe and tobacco pouch.
“He lacks … economy. I saw him beat a boy almost to death, when he could have had the information he wanted for a piece of bread and bacon fat.”
Seaver shrugged. “And the current matter?”
Anna spoke carefully, trying not to let memory—Bram’s former master watching his house burn down—color her words. “He’s either lying or mistaken.”
“How so?”
“Thieves don’t set fires; they don’t want to get caught. It was an accident, or perhaps he set the fire himself, having removed the equipment first, to save paying what he owes Mr. Browne while secretly distilling elsewhere.”
“I see.” Seaver considered this. “The man killed inside?”
“Accidental or intentional, the fire covers the deed. Do you think Stratton cares about anything but his profit?”
“I think you are right, Mrs. Hoyt.” He rose, and grinned. He did not truly smile, as his teeth were not made to express happiness. “I shall examine the place. Thank you for your opinion.”
She nodded goodnight, not trusting her voice, and climbed to her room.
The door was ajar.
Her heart quickened. It mustn’t be Bram, not here …
She rested her hand against the door, as if to discern his presence, then pushed it open.
A movement by the curtain. Anna took two steps to the table and her Bible. She picked it up, and from the recently repaired binding withdrew a strong, slender blade. The steel was German, sharp and bright, flat for concealment in the spine of the book.
Holding it behind her skirts, she said, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The curtains twitched again, and a bedraggled girl, barely twenty, stepped out. “Please. It’s only me.”
Anna knew the inn’s household; this girl was no part of it. “Who are you? What are you doing here? I have no time for thieves.”
“I’m Clarissa. Please … I need … Take me away from here.”
A smell of molasses and charcoal and sugar burnt to acid assailed Anna’s nose. “You’re the one Stratton is looking for. You started