Low Treason (Joan and Matthew Stock Mystery Book 2) by Leonard Tourney

Author:Leonard Tourney [Tourney, Leonard]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2019-05-23T00:00:00+00:00

8

By suppertime Joan had arrived in London and had found her way to the Blue Boar. When the innkeeper informed her that he had not seen her husband since early morning, she went up to his chamber apprehensively, inspected the handful of personal articles he had left there, and sat down to wait.

There was nothing else to do. She felt idle and useless.

The evening air was mild and fresh after the morning’s rain. She opened the window and looked down at the street. Even at this hour it was a fast-moving stream, a feverish scramble in the failing light—folk of all conditions rushing homeward, concluding the day’s business, anticipating the night’s rest, labors, merriment, or mischief. In Chelmsford, life was a leisurely amble of generous days. London, however, was a kind of mad riot of activity, coming and going, getting and spending in a fury as though it were always the eleventh hour, the last minute.

She felt a surge of homesickness, thought of her husband.

Now it was quite dark, the passersby were ghostly figures illuminated by torches; she could hear their voices, vague and diminutive in the gloom. She was far removed from them, looking from her window, dumpish.

Matthew?

The black pall of melancholy overwhelmed her, and she fell into a reverie in which she saw her husband, his face pale and his hands cold and limp and lifeless.

Death by water.

The image confused her sense of place. She looked about her; yes, it was still where her husband had lain. His impression on the bed, his wallet with his second-best suit, pushed beneath. But then, willful thing that it was, the vision recurred. There was a great expanse of gray water, a horrid stagnant smell, and Matthew floating just below the surface, his face upward toward her, dreadfully stark.

He had drowned. She knew it, although she could not explain how, and the grief engulfed her suddenly and she began to weep slow hot tears. She was not sure she could go on without him.

She returned to the bed and, without undressing, lay down upon it. She did not bother to light a candle or lamp. She lay brooding in the darkness, listening, feeling her thoughts as though they were tangible things she could take from her purse and put back again, show to Matthew, or secrete in her bosom.

She smelled the herb-scented pillow, the country freshness of the rushes on the floor, the faint acrid odor of the chamberpot in the corner and she began to weep again. The tears ran down her cheeks, down the sides of her face.

Matthew drowned.

She could not rid herself of the impression.

In time she fell asleep and dreamed. Strangely, she did not dream of her husband, but of the odd serpentlike creature of which Tom Ingram had spoken. She was wandering through woods. The trees and bushes seemed familiar to her. A rain had fallen earlier, for the leaves glistened with moisture and she could smell the strong earthy odor of growing things. It was very pleasant where she walked.

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