Page 81 of Honor Unbound

Marie

“Well, thank youfor speaking with us.” Marie’s cheeks were starting to hurt from an afternoon of polite smiles. She and Brett were knocking on the doors of the businesses and residences near Trent’s canning factory. So far, no one had seen anything the night of Mr. Hicks’s murder and had no idea why that “poor man” would be targeted.

The next door was a narrow home wedged between two office buildings. The woman who answered their knock had a baby in one arm and a young child tugging on her skirts. “That Runner already asked these questions,” she complained.

Lady Mary would be pleased that Sir Kelsey had assigned a man to canvass the area.

Brett gave the woman an engaging smile. “It’s best to come through here multiple times. Some people might not be at home on the first round. Someone might remember something more. So, do you remember seeing or hearing anything unusual that night?”

Marie shifted closer to Brett. He smiled at everyone, she understood. When it happened to be directed at a lovely, young woman, however, she didn’t have to like it.

“The only thing I heard was my baby crying.” She dug her knuckle into her eye. “I have to start on supper.” And she shut the door in their faces.

Marie slipped her arm in Brett’s as they turned down the pavement. “She looked exhausted. Do children do that to all mothers?”

He patted her hand. “You can’t become fainthearted now. Babies cry. We’ll both be tired. But it only lasts for a couple of years.” He tilted his head. “And it helps if you have family to assist you. A grandmother and grandfather, aunts and uncles. Everyone lends a hand.”

Her chest tightened. Any child she had would never know its uncle, at least not on its mother’s side. It was most unfair.

“Besides, you can make cards disappear up your sleeve and our child will be too entertained to cry.”

Marie rolled her eyes, but her melancholy fled. Her husband had that effect on her.

Brett pointed down a side street. “Let’s try down there. The river is right behind the factory. Perhaps someone who was docked heard something.”

She nodded, wrinkling her nose as they went. The closer to the river, the larger the stench, and she wasn’t quite sure what it was she was smelling.

A lot of the boats currently docked weren’t there the night of the murder. One of the stevedores pointed at a river barge that looked as though it was struggling to float. “Ask him. He’s always here.”

They went to the dock where it was tied up, and Brett called to the ship. “Ahoy there. Anyone home?”

Marie looked back at the cannery. There was a ramp from a rear door down to the river. There was another factory about a quarter of a mile down, a couple public houses and dry goods stores, all bustling with activity. Trent’s cannery sat desolate, stark in its emptiness. Marie wondered if it would ever resume production.

“You there!”

Marie and Brett turned. An older man who looked as dilapidated as the boat limped toward them from the road that ran along the river. A loaf of bread was tucked under one arm, a wedge of cheese and bottle of spirits in his hands.

Brett planted himself between the man and Marie. “Are you the captain here?”

“I am.” The man stopped in front of them, slightly out of breath. “Name’s Sanderson. And who are you?” he said, his tone belligerent.

Marie stepped to Brett’s side. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sanderson.”

The old man’s face softened. “Miss. Didn’t see you there. And it’s just Sanderson.”

Brett made introductions. “Were you here Monday night, early Tuesday morning? The night the manager of that factory was killed?” He pointed to Trent’s cannery.

“I was.” The bread started to slip, and the captain scrambled to catch it.

Marie darted forward and grabbed it. “Don’t want that landing in the dirt.”

“Much obliged.” Sanderson scratched his cheek with the neck of the bottle. “You want to know if I saw something, too. Sorry to say I didn’t catch sight of the killer. Crime down by the river has been getting worse and worse, and the government don’t care.”

Marie blew out a breath, her shoulders sagging. They’d run into another blind alley. Hopefully, the Runner had learned more than they had.

“I knew Mr. Hicks,” Sanderson continued. “He’d give me the odd tin of food when he could. Nice man. Such a shame what happened to him.”

“You knew him?” Marie straightened. “When was the last time you spoke with him?”