Part 33 (2/2)
Had the man been told that they'd been dismissed?
”h.e.l.lo there, Inspector Ryan. Haven't seen you in a couple of days.”
Ryan relaxed somewhat. ”I've been busy.”
”And likely to get busier.”
”I'm afraid you're right. This is Constable Becker.”
”Sure, we've met. What happened to your coat, Becker?”
”Tangled with somebody.”
”That's been happening a lot lately.”
”And this is a witness we need to question,” Ryan said, indicating Emily. ”Can we use a room down the hall?”
”And get some hot tea?” Becker looked at Emily's frost-reddened cheeks.
”It's next to the stove.”
They pa.s.sed the old woman on the bench and entered a room that had three unoccupied desks near a stove. Emily took off her gloves and rubbed her hands together over the heat.
Ryan picked up a teapot and poured steaming liquid into three cups. ”Enjoy it while you can. There's no telling when we'll be booted out of here.”
A voice interrupted them.
”Ryan.”
They turned.
The constable was in the doorway.
Has he learned that we're no longer policemen?
”A woman's been waiting for you,” the man said.
”The one asleep on the bench?”
”Not anymore. When she heard you come in, she woke up. I told her you're the man she's wanting to see. Can you talk to her? She's been here since yesterday evening.”
The woman stood behind him. Awake, she looked older than when they'd first seen her. She turned her face, as if hiding something. The portion of her face that showed was lined with wrinkles, tight like a net. She clutched her ragged coat as if she would never be able to get warm.
”It's something about the first Ratcliffe Highway murders,” the constable explained. ”I told her n.o.body cares about ancient history. It's the murders Sat.u.r.day and last night that we want to solve. But she insists the first ones have something to do with the recent ones. She says she's ashamed about something. It wouldn't hurt to listen to her. Even if it's nothing, at least then she'll go home.”
”Fine,” Ryan said. ”Let her in.”
The constable motioned for the woman to enter the office.
She looked so tired and pathetic that Emily helped her to a chair at a desk. ”Would you like some tea?”
”I don't have any money.”
”This won't cost you anything,” Emily a.s.sured her.
”Thank you. I'm thirsty.”
”You have information about the murders?” Becker asked.
The woman nodded. ”Forty-three years ago.”
”What about the recent ones?”
The woman stared mournfully at steam rising from the cup Emily gave her. Although she had said that she was thirsty, she didn't drink. Emily was able to see that the woman's left cheek had a burn scar.
”What's your name?” Ryan asked.
”Margaret.”
”Your last name?”
”Jewell.”
Emily repeated the name so forcefully-”Margaret Jewell?”-that Becker and Ryan looked at her in surprise.
”What is it?” Ryan asked.
”From the Marr killings?” Emily asked the woman.
”Yes.” Margaret's voice was edged with sorrow.
”What's going on?” Becker asked.
”Father wrote about this woman. She's the servant Timothy Marr sent to buy oysters just before the killings.”
Ryan walked closer. ”Margaret?”
The woman looked up at him.
”Tell us why you came here.”
”Sat.u.r.day midnight. Forty-three years ago.”
”Yes, forty-three years ago.” Ryan knelt before her, putting his face level with hers.
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