To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 13

Timothy scrambled to dig his notebook out of his pocket with numb fingers, and dropped the pencil in his haste. Before he could scoot his chair out far enough to retrieve it, Sam handed him another. He took it and flipped to an empty page, willing his hands to stop shaking. Think! Why was that so hard? His thoughts seemed shattered, as useless and impossible to recollect as broken glass.

He heard Sam asking for Mr. Hund's full name, title, and years of employment as if from a distance, and scribbled the answers down, painfully aware that his handwriting was even more refractory than usual. At least Sam had thought of some questions, and still had the presence of mind to ask them.

Mr. Hund poured the tea slowly. "As I've told the constabulary—and the other reporters that have been here—the day began without incident." He had an extraordinarily deep voice. "Mrs. Janson and I went about our duties in the house, and Mr. Basken remained closeted in his study on the second floor."

"Was that usual?" Sam prompted, sounding much more composed than either of them had been moments earlier.

"Oh yes, of course," Mr. Hund took his tea standing. "Mr. Basken was a man of business—worked at the firm of Astor and Wright, I believe."

Timothy looked up in surprise, but no one except him seemed to find this tidbit at all interesting. Mr. Hund merely blew the steam off the top of his cup, and Sam consulted his notes. Could that have been why Mr. Hund seemed to take a special interest in Timothy when he introduced himself? Surely there were too many Wrights in the world for any of them to stand out. He was surprised the company even still bore his father's name. It must have been too much trouble to change it after the partnership was dissolved. Timothy didn't know why. His uncle had extracted every last thaler from the Wrights in legal dues. He ought to have been able to afford a sign painter.

"When did you first observe that something was wrong?" Sam asked.

"I should say it was about six o'clock in the evening, when I went to deliver his dinner to him. About an hour earlier a friend from Astor and Wright had come to visit with a bottle of wine. I brought it up with the dinner—Mr. Basken was going to eat with Mr. Webb. They both seemed in high spirits, but a quarter of an hour later Mr. Webb found me very distraught and said that Mr. Basken seemed to be suffering a fit of apoplexy. When I went up, he was dead."

Timothy stopped writing and shivered. Mr. Hund delivered the anecdote as calmly as if he were speaking of the weather. Surely a servant should be more disturbed by their employer's death!

Sam paused. "How did you feel when you realized your employer had died?"

"Shocked," Mr. Hund said in a tone that told he'd been anything but.

"Where were you while this was occurring?" Sam asked, more gruffly than usual.

Mr. Hund took a sip of tea. "In the kitchen, with Mrs. Janson." He glanced briefly at Timothy. "You know how servants like to gossip."

Timothy stared hard at his notes, more disconcerted than ever. Mr. Hund knew him somehow—or at least knew his family—and because Timothy had never seen him before in his life he found that fact more frightening than comforting. The sooner they could leave, the better.

"What sort of man was your employer?"

"A very driven one," Mr. Hund said shortly. "Very intent upon his work."

"And where is Mr. Webb now?" Sam asked, sounding like someone who had come to the end of their questions and was wondering what the proper way to end the conversation was.

"At home, I suppose. The police judged him innocent." Mr. Hund didn't seem inclined to pursue the matter further.

There was another pause. "Do you—do you believe Mr. Webb is guilty?" Sam asked, and Timothy looked at him sharply. The question was deceitful—it led Mr. Hund into a corner with only Sam's words to answer with. If he said no, he would be ignoring obvious facts. If he said yes, a possibly innocent man's life could be jeopardized. He put down his pencil.

Mr. Hund smiled faintly. "On the table next to Mr. Basken's napkin was a note that said 'dare.' I'll leave that for you to decide."

Timothy closed his notebook with relief, and after Sam thanked Mr. Hund for his time, they were shown outside the house with as little ceremony as they had entered it. Never had Timothy been so glad to leave an interview, and he limped down the weedy drive towards the waiting cab in a daze. He entered the cab without seeing it, and sat down without thinking about it. The interview had given him more than a murder to mull over, and more than one conversation to regret.

"Why did you disapprove of the last question?" Sam inquired as the cab lurched forward.

Timothy grimaced and closed his eyes. "It was a leading question," he said, determined not to unravel again. When he looked to see the effect this had on Sam, he found that his companion still seemed bewildered. "It means that you formed an opinion, and wanted to know if the person you interviewed agreed. In this instance, it could have turned public sentiment against a possibly innocent man."

The ensuing silence grew thick. Timothy glanced at Sam to see him studying the dirt on the window. As painful as the silence was, Timothy wasn't sure he could handle any more conversation right then. Perhaps it was a blessing.

Unfortunately, it was a blessing that would not last. "If your artificial leg is why you feel like you can't help anyone—"

It took a moment for what Sam had said to reach Timothy's brain, but when it did, he gaped at him. How could he possibly—? A thousand broken questions leaped through his mind, but none as powerful as the overriding terror of what might happen should the others at The Thameton Pry find out. Employing an invalid was a risky venture at best, and Sam didn't seem like the kind that could keep a secret.

Sam looked at him calmly. "You walk with a limp. I thought that perhaps you might have been born with a twisted foot, but there was something in your manner that told me that wasn't the case. You try too hard to hide it, have an evident terror of anyone in the medical profession, and occasionally reach for crutches that are no longer there."

Timothy's heart pounded; painfully. "I fail to see why any of that is your business."

Sam went on, looking up as if he were reading a list off the ceiling. "Your ankle is stiff, and you can't walk a great distance as shown by your insistence that we get a cab—ah, don't say anything. You can't, not won't because when you do you're in so much pain the next day that you have to take time to recover."

Timothy's throat constricted. There it was, that word he was running from: can't. He glared at the floor, resentful of everything that had led him to this moment. "How do you—how do you know all this?"

"If it wasn't true, you would have shown up to work on Saturday. The Lancasters' is quite a distance from the newspaper office."

There was another thick silence as Timothy strove to collect himself, broken only by the rattle of the wheels and jingling of the harnesses. Why did Sam's observations hurt so much? He felt foolish, and angry again—angry that Sam couldn't leave well enough alone, and angry that he'd ever agreed to write this cursed article.

"Having an artificial leg doesn't make you worthless," Sam said quietly.

Timothy glared at him. "No?"

Sam shook his head, looking at the floor now. "My father lived one of the most meaningful lives of any man I ever knew, and he did it with a wooden leg he earned in the War of the Great Divide."

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As a long-time Sherlock Holmes fan, I had to incorporate several nods to The Hound of the Baskervilles (and other Holmes stories) in my first murder mystery. Have you noticed any?