Death of a Hired Man by Eric Wright

Author:Eric Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2011-02-16T05:00:00+00:00

Fifteen minutes later, Wilkie followed Pickett to Larch River, but drove on through the town until he came again to the Sroats’ place.

The chicken farm still looked like a prisoner-of-war camp during a rest period. Only the dogs testified to the presence of life inside, but when they came forward, barking, the door opened and Aaron Sproat stood there. Something about him suggested that he saw himself as the guardian of the keep. He called the dogs to him, and Wilkie climbed out of the car and approached.

“I need a word with Mrs. Sproat,” he said.

“What for?”

“Mrs. Sproat,” Wilkie repeated, letting Sproat know that he didn’t plan to explain himself.

Sproat stepped back and let him by.

“I won’t need you,” Wilkie said.

“I’m staying anyways. Mrs. Sproat might want me.”

“You’ll stay out of our talk, though, won’t you?”

The level of hostility was escalating as Wilkie tried to irritate Sproat, to find out if there was more behind his attitude than ordinary protectiveness.

“Mrs. Sproat’s my wife.”

“I know that, sir. I’m not here to arrest anyone, just to ask a couple of questions. So stay if you like, but don’t speak until I ask you to, okay?”

They moved into the living room, where Mrs. Sproat was already seated at the table on one of the straight-backed chairs. Wilkie took a chair opposite and Sproat sat between them, on one side, with his arms crossed.

“We’ve been trying to establish why anyone would want to kill someone as harmless as Norbert Thompson,” Wilkie began. “Find a motive.” He addressed himself directly to Mrs. Sproat.

“We heard it could’ve been an accident,” Sproat said. “He could’ve fell against the stove.”

Wilkie turned sharply and cut in on the last word. “That’s the free one, sir,” he said. “You don’t get any more of those. Speak up once more and we’ll go into Sweetwater, where your wife and I can talk in private. Suit yourself.”

Sproat laced his hands over his crotch and leaned back, silent.

“How much did you pay Thompson, Mrs. Sproat?”

Without actually speaking, Sproat, by stiffening his back, turning his head, snorting softly, then shifting his chair, made it clear that Mrs. Sproat was dealing with a loaded question. Wilkie ignored him, keeping his eyes on Mrs. Sproat.

“Who needs to know?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Who needs to know? Why?”

“How much did you pay him, ma’am?”

“A hundred a week.”

Sproat let out a sigh.

Wilkie nodded. “A couple more then, and I’ll tell you why I want to know. I asked you this already, but again, as far as you know, he didn’t spend his money on anything except his Saturday-afternoon outings?”

“He didn’t need to, mister. He didn’t need to. I took care of all his meals, and I gave him most of Mr. Maguire’s clothes before Mr. Maguire died. What else did he need money for? He never complained to me, or asked me for a raise. That wage was fixed between him and my former husband when Thompson first came, and he agreed to it.”

“Actually, I’m interested in the money he had left over, not the money he should have earned.

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