The Hunter

“There’s one person that admits straight out they were at the scene of the crime. They say there was a few men there, but they’ve nothing to back that up. And they mighta had a good reason to want Paddy Englishman dead. We all know Rushborough had a hold on Johnny, and we all know Johnny Reddy’d sell his own flesh and blood to save his own skin, not a bother on him.”

He watches Lena from under his tangle of eyebrows, steadily fanning himself. Somewhere a sheep calls, a familiar undemanding sound, far away in the fields.

“Think it through,” Mart says. “This isn’t the time for shortsightedness. What’ll happen next? And then what’ll happen after that?”

Lena says, “What is it you want off me?”

“It was wee Johnny Reddy that killed Rushborough,” Mart says, gently but with great finality. “ ’Tis a sad thing to say about a man we all knew from a baba, but let’s be honest: Johnny was always a charmer, but he was never what you’d call a man of conscience. There’s people saying Johnny wouldn’ta done it because Rushborough was more good to him alive than dead, but the fact is, the two of them brought over some unfinished business from London. Johnny owed your man a fair bitta cash, and your man wasn’t the type that’d take well to being left outa pocket. That’s why Johnny came home: he was hoping people here had enough fondness for one of their own that they’d dip into their savings to keep him from getting his legs broke, or worse. And that’s why Rushborough came after him: he wasn’t going to have Johnny giving him the slip. There might be a few people that heard some wild rumor about gold, but I’d say that’s a story Johnny put about to explain what the two of them were doing here.”

He uses his hat to waft his smoke politely away from Lena, and cocks an eye at her. “Are you with me so far?”

“I’m following you,” Lena says.

“A-one,” Mart says. “Well, Johnny had a bitta success. There’s plenty of people that’ll testify, if they haveta, that he came asking them for a loan. Some of them even gave him a few bob, for old times’ sake.” He smiles at Lena. “I’m not ashamed to say I loaned him a coupla hundred quid myself. I knew I’d never see hide nor hair of it again, but I suppose I’m an aul’ softie at heart. Maybe your Cal did the same, did he, for Theresa’s sake? And maybe his bank statement’d show him withdrawing that few hundred quid, a few days after Johnny came home?”

Lena watches him.

“How and ever,” Mart says, “Johnny couldn’t scrape together the full whack, and Rushborough wouldn’t be satisfied with any less than he was owed. There’s a few people that’ll say Johnny came back to them in the last coupla days before Rushborough died, begging for money again, saying ’twas life or death. Maybe you’re one of them, sure. Maybe that’s what Johnny was doing round here, the evening before it happened, banging on your door and bellowing outa him.”

He arches an inquiring eyebrow at Lena. She says nothing.

“Johnny was a frightened man,” Mart says. “And no wonder. I was never a fan of Mr. Rushborough; underneath the fancy shirts and the fancy talk, he always seemed like a right hard chaw to me. The Guards must be looking into him, and I don’t know what they’ll find, but I’d say ’twould frighten the life outa anyone, let alone a wee scutter like Johnny. He couldn’t run: if Rushborough had followed him once, he’d do it again. And sure, Johnny wouldn’ta wanted to head for the hills, anyway, leaving his wife and childer unprotected with that fella out for blood. No dacent man’d do that.”

Lena doesn’t bother to hide her dry look. “I’m feeling charitable,” Mart explains. “No harm in thinking the best of people. One way or t’other, Johnny couldn’t see a way out. He arranged to meet Rushborough somewhere on the mountain. Maybe he said he had the money ready for him after all. Rushborough’d be an awful eejit to meet him somewhere lonely, but sure, anyone can get overconfident, specially when he’s dealing with the likes of Johnny Reddy. Only instead of paying him, Johnny kilt him. I’ve heard he hit him over the head with a lump hammer, but then again, I’ve heard he stabbed him with a screwdriver, either right through the heart or right through the eye. Would you have any information on that?”

“No more than you have,” Lena says. “Noreen heard he was hit with a rock. But then she heard he was knifed, or maybe his throat was cut. That’s as much as I know.”

It sets her teeth on edge to give him even this much. It’s a surrender.

“Detective Nealon said nothing to your fella?”

“Not that he’s told me.”

“No matter,” Mart says peacefully, dropping his smoke to crush it out under his boot. “ ’Twoulda been useful to know, but we’ll do grand without. Whichever or whatever hit him, that was the end of the bold Mr. Rushborough. ’Tis an awful tragic story, and ’twon’t be popular with the tourist board, but you can’t please everyone. And most of the tourists that come here do be passing through to somewhere else anyway, or else they’re lost, so ’twon’t do much harm.”