The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

The road had been treacherous due to the many ruts caused by run-offs from melting, then freezing snow and ice, but West had excellent control over his horses and the carriage. The bulky crates the men had collected at Missus Taylor’s boarding house were tied to the roof of the carriage and served as good ballast. There was precious little daylight remaining when the horses pulled the carriage up the long drive, passing the weathered, two-legged sign that said: BOWERIE DE GROUT.

Only the carriage lamps and the thin yellow beam from a kerosene lantern near the gate marked their way to the front of the farmhouse. The house itself was weathered clapboard, turned grey from the elements over the previous century. Dutch style, in need of paint, and sprawling, with added-on extensions.

Smoke rose from three chimneys; light flickered in the windows. Beyond the house was a large barn and farther on, sheds and outbuildings, a fenced-in corral, and fields rising into the hills.

A grizzled old man came out of the barn as the carriage drove up the narrow road leading to the front of the house. He picked up the lantern and waited till Jack West reined-in the horses.

Harry was first out of the carriage and greeted the old man, “Evening, pappy.” He opened the door and stepped into the house.

After unhitching the horses, Jack West slipped the old man two penny coins. “Feed them at the same time. The mare gets jealous. Some oats, but only a taste of water. I’ll be out to see to them in a while.”

Robbie had already begun unstrapping the crates from the roof of the carriage, and with Jack’s help set them on the ground. Harry, it appeared, had found something more important to do.

“A long sight easier than putting them up.” Robbie pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. He offered it to Jack, who declined.

“I’m a cigar man,” Jack said, sniffing. The rich smell of roasting hens was spilling from the open door, where an old woman stood smiling. She beckoned them inside to the warmth of the great room and the hearty fire that burned in a huge old hearth.

Jack West was curious by nature. He liked to think that there was little he didn’t know about his city. But he was less familiar with Inwood than he was with Brooklyn, where his wife and his daughter Mae lived.

Punch Jack West in the jaw and it didn’t faze him, but freeze his saggy old arse on a winter’s night and he’d be out of sorts for a week. So he took comfort in being surrounded by the warmth of the well-laid hearth and the rich smells wafting in from the nearby kitchen.

The walls were whitewashed, the beams heavy and rough-hewn, the great room being the earliest built part of the old Dutch houses. The furnishings were sparse, but, interestingly enough, there was a piano. Two old people, two young men, and the piano …

“You be staying the night, of course?” The old man came into the house, bringing with him a gust of frigid air. “Your horses are settled. There’re some apples in the barn and some runty carrots, if you want.”

“West is the name. Jack West. And I thank you.”

“Mister West will indeed take supper and spend the night,” Robbie said. He’d shed his coat. “The road is not fit to drive a carriage on in the dark.”

West said, “I’ll take you up on your hospitality and leave first light in the morning.” To the old man, he added, “I thank you for giving me a hand with my team.”

There were three horses in the barn and the arrival of two more was still being greeted by a lot of snorting and whinnying back and forth. Like they were talking to each other, Jack West thought. The old man had forked down hay, and water stood in a big oaken barrel, ladle attached. He stood by while West gave his team a brisk rubdown.

By the time he’d finished, gotten the horses settled for the night together in their one large stall, Jack West knew the old man was Samuel Hendricks. Samuel and his wife Annie had worked the farm for the de Grouts. In fact, Samuel was born on the farm. His father had been manager and his mother, housekeeper. Old Widow de Grout had died in September and now the farm belonged to her granddaughter Henrietta.

“Miss Henrietta, she come home as soon as she heard,” Samuel said. “That girl was always adventuresome. She went out West and got herself a job teaching in school.” He used a crowbar to open one of the crates.

Jack scattered hay for his horses. The gelding whinnied. Jack liked to think the beast was saying thank you. He turned to Samuel. “The boys? They’re related?” The crate held a saddle. Well-ridden. The two had brought their saddles East with them.

“Mister Harry and Mister Robbie, you mean? Why Mister Harry is going to be Miss Henrietta’s husband and Mister Robbie, he’s his kin.”

As they headed back to the house, the rousing sound of the piano could be heard and, when Samuel opened the door, Jack West saw Harry banging away on the piano-forte while Robbie whirled a tall, laughing woman around the great room.