They made their way toward the field in silence. Lenoir scanned the rows of town houses as they went, searching for an alleyway or some other hidden route by which a kidnapped boy might be secreted away without being seen by passersby. It was a quiet street; only the muted trill of pigeons accompanied their footsteps. From behind them the fading babble of the main avenue sounded like a distant creek. Ahead, a wagon trail ran perpendicular to the street, and beyond it the field opened out before them, revealing the long, ordered rows of a raspberry farm.
“Does this wagon road run the length of town?” Lenoir asked.
“More or less,” said Crears. They had reached the edge of the field now, and they turned their backs to the rows of raspberry bushes. The breeze sweeping across the field was cold on the back of Lenoir’s neck; winter was coming.
“And the gardens of this last row of houses overlook the length of it?”
“They do.”
Lenoir knelt, scrutinizing the wagon road. The grass grew long between the wheel ruts, and the earth was packed hard where the weight of the fruit-laden wagons came to bear. Lenoir despaired of finding any trace of what he was looking for, but then he got lucky. As he moved a little southward along the road, he spied a scar on the edge of one of the wagon ruts, as though a horse crossing over the road had tripped when its hoof failed to clear the hump of grass between the deep ruts. Lenoir tried to suppress the flutter in his stomach. It was too early to get excited. Far too early . . .
Crears had seen it now too. He turned ninety degrees to his right, following the line of the hoof marks toward the field. Sure enough, there was evidence here too, even more plain than the track on the road. The spaces between the raspberry rows were only just wide enough to permit a man to comfortably pick the fruit. A horse could pass through, but not without damaging the bushes. The trail could not have been more obvious: the dark soil was littered with sprigs of heart-shaped raspberry leaves, some trodden beneath the crescent moon of a horseshoe.
“But wait,” Kody said as Crears and Lenoir started into the field. “How do we know this is our kidnapper? That could be anyone’s trail!”
Lenoir bit back a harsh reply. He did not have time to explain every little thing to Kody, and anyway, was it not obvious? But he could not afford to alienate the sergeant any more today. He needed Kody to be sharp, not brooding after yet another row. So instead he answered, as patiently as possible, “It could be someone else’s trail, yes. But probably not. Think about it, Sergeant. You are a kidnapper. You have just seized a child in broad daylight, in his own neighborhood where everyone knows him. Now you must make your escape. Where do you go? The street has no alleyways, no hidden routes to take between the town houses. You can either go east, back to the main avenue full of people, or west, out to the fields. Of course you go west, and now you are on the wagon road. Do you take it, in full view of every back garden on the west side of town? Or do you take the boy into the fields where no one can see you?”
“Folks around here don’t take kindly to people riding through the berry fields,” Crears added. “More than likely this is our man. But even if it isn’t, we’ll still be headed in the right direction.”
They moved single file through the canyon of foliage, their footsteps muted by the closeness of their surroundings. It was the ideal getaway route, Lenoir realized. The bushes were thriving here, growing so densely that very little light filtered between the leaves. And they were high, almost to the top of Lenoir’s head. They would not completely conceal a man on horseback, but if he hunched over, no one would be able to tell who he was or what he was carrying. He would not even have to stain his clothing, for the fruit had long since been picked.
Lenoir called ahead to Crears, “Do you know whose farm this is?”
“Can’t remember his name, but yeah, I know him. He’s got kids of his own. Can’t imagine he’d have anything to do with it.”
“How much land has he got?”
“Not that much. A couple of hides, maybe.”
“And then someone else’s land.”
“Right, and then it gets to—”
Crears stopped so suddenly that Lenoir walked into him. “What is it?” Kody called from behind.
Crears turned around, his expression set. “Let’s go back for the horses, Inspector. I know where we’re going.”
CHAPTER 11
“The place has been abandoned for years,” Crears explained, twisting in his saddle to speak over his shoulder. “The crop came up blighted one season, and the owner just left it. The fields have lain fallow ever since. It’s a sore point with the local farmers.”
Understandably so, Lenoir thought as they approached along the wagon road that separated one property from another. It was as though the road were a boundary between two worlds, one bright and young and alive, the other dull and overcome with decay. To their left, emerald green fields were lined with bushes as neatly ordered as military ranks. Yet only a few feet away, the neighboring property was overgrown with thistles and clover. A wide, ugly trench had been dug between the road and the abandoned farm, a crude attempt by the neighbors to keep the weeds from invading their land.
It only grew worse the closer they got to the farm buildings. A pair of old fruit wagons sat at the head of the drive, one of them pitched forward like a wounded animal on its knees. It had been stripped of its front wheels, some opportunistic neighbor having salvaged them.
Crears was right to bring them here. It was the perfect place to keep someone against his will. No one would happen upon the site, and there was nothing within earshot. Even if the boy managed to escape, he would probably be too disoriented to get far. Lenoir only hoped that the three of them would be able to manage whomever they found here. Crears had sent one of his watchmen to round up as many others as he could, but that would take time, and they dared not wait. Every minute that passed was another risk taken, for there was no telling what the kidnapper intended.
They dismounted about halfway up the drive, tying their horses to a fence post that did not look up to the task. Lenoir had brought a sword, plus a brace of flintlocks that Crears had loaned him. The sergeant and the constable were similarly armed, though Kody preferred a crossbow to a pistol. He insisted that he could load it faster and that it aimed truer, and Lenoir did not argue, for he had never seen Kody miss a shot.
There was no evidence of the place being occupied. They could not see any horses, and there was no sign of life from the barn. The farmhouse itself was in ruins. The western half of it had collapsed, leaving a wreckage of rotting wood overgrown with ivy, and what was left standing had a precipitous lean, as though it could go at any moment. It appeared to consist of two rooms, probably the main room and a single remaining bedroom. Someone had boarded up one side of the larger room where the wall had caved in, but it was shoddily done and probably offered only the barest protection from the elements.
Lenoir, Kody, and Crears circled around the house. A path led from the back down to the river. It looked to have been recently trod. Lenoir made a mental note of it, but first they needed to investigate the house. Crears stationed himself at the back door and drew his pistols, while Kody and Lenoir made their way around to the front. They paused before the door. It had been painted once, but that was clearly long ago; only a few chips of white still speckled the shaggy gray wood, and shadows were visible between the shrunken slats. Lenoir could probably have shouldered his way past the door, but there was no telling what awaited them on the other side. They readied their weapons. Kody towered behind Lenoir, leveling his crossbow just above the inspector’s shoulder. Lenoir raised his pistol. Then he gave a short nod, and Kody pivoted and kicked the door off its hinges.