Read Online Never Trust a Dead Man by Vivian Vande Velde - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
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said.
Farold snorted. "For a change."
Selwyn wondered how to get the conversation back to where it needed to be.
But while he was still working at it, Farold said, "If Linton killed me—which I don't think he did—but if he did, how would you go about getting him to admit it?"
Speaking slowly, still working it out as he spoke, Selwyn said, "Well, someone saw me in the village after dark. Maybe someone saw Linton, too."
"Linton
lives
in the village," Farold was quick to point out "With his parents and his three brothers and two sisters."
Selwyn could just hear him rolling his little bat eyeballs. Did he have any idea how lucky he was that the branch he hung from was out of easy reach? "Yes, but Derian says the three of you had supper together, and then Linton went home. Maybe someone saw him come back out again, later, and return to the mill."
"And whoever saw this didn't think to mention it before—when you were being condemned to death—but they'll tell it now?"
Selwyn squirmed under Farold's sarcasm. "Before," he said, "everyone was so convinced I killed you, they might not have thought to mention Linton's activities."
"Oh, very likely. That explains everything."
The infuriating thing was that Farold was right. "And," Selwyn continued, "I need to find out who had opportunity to find or steal my knife."
"Your knife?"
Selwyn thought Farold's voice sounded odd, and he glanced over.
"I was killed with your knife?"
Was Farold going to need to be reassured all over again that Selwyn hadn't been the one to kill him? "Yes," Selwyn said.
But all Farold said was "Oh."
"What?" Selwyn asked suspiciously.
"I had your knife," Farold admitted.
"
What?
" Selwyn repeated.
"Don't take that tone with me," Farold warned, sounding much the same as Selwyn's mother would when she said the same thing.
Selwyn refused to be drawn into that argument. "Don't talk to me about tone when you stole my knife."
"I just meant it as a joke," Farold said. "Can't you take a joke? I would have given it back."
"A joke would have been giving it back after a day. You had it for three weeks."
"Yeah, well...," Farold said, but obviously couldn't think of anything else to add. He readjusted his wings. "This isn't getting us anywhere," he sniffed.
Selwyn
still
wanted to shake him until his eyeballs rattled. He took two deep breaths and gritted his teeth. "Did anybody know," he asked through his teeth, "that you had the knife? Like, for example, Linton?"
"No," Farold said slowly, thinking, "not Linton. Merton."
"Merton?" Selwyn repeated in amazement. Merton was brother to his best friend, Raedan—and also a friend. Or, at least, Selwyn had thought he was a friend. It was bad enough realizing that—all those days he'd been frantically searching for the missing knife—Merton had known where it was. That made him as bad as Farold. But worse yet was what had happened at Bowden's house: when, under Bowden's questioning, Selwyn had explained that he'd lost the blade, and Merton had agreed that this was so. And never a mention that Farold had had the knife all along. Not even when Bowden pronounced that the knife being missing for so long proved that Selwyn had been
planning
to murder Farold.
"Merton knew you had my knife?" he asked, just to make sure he was understanding correctly. "All along?" It couldn't have been all along.
"He was the one who found it," Farold said. "You dropped it that day everybody was helping Snell's widow with the hay mowing. Merton found it in the grass after we'd finished eating, and we thought it would be a good joke, after you'd been showing off with it, as usual—"
"I...," Selwyn protested, interrupting. But he couldn't deny it. He
was
proud of the knife his father had brought back from the wars. He
did
have a tendency to take it out whenever he had an excuse to show off the elaborate handle, the finely wrought blade of high-quality steel that honed to a much sharper edge than the villagers' common blades.
Farold snorted. "For a change."
Selwyn wondered how to get the conversation back to where it needed to be.
But while he was still working at it, Farold said, "If Linton killed me—which I don't think he did—but if he did, how would you go about getting him to admit it?"
Speaking slowly, still working it out as he spoke, Selwyn said, "Well, someone saw me in the village after dark. Maybe someone saw Linton, too."
"Linton
lives
in the village," Farold was quick to point out "With his parents and his three brothers and two sisters."
Selwyn could just hear him rolling his little bat eyeballs. Did he have any idea how lucky he was that the branch he hung from was out of easy reach? "Yes, but Derian says the three of you had supper together, and then Linton went home. Maybe someone saw him come back out again, later, and return to the mill."
"And whoever saw this didn't think to mention it before—when you were being condemned to death—but they'll tell it now?"
Selwyn squirmed under Farold's sarcasm. "Before," he said, "everyone was so convinced I killed you, they might not have thought to mention Linton's activities."
"Oh, very likely. That explains everything."
The infuriating thing was that Farold was right. "And," Selwyn continued, "I need to find out who had opportunity to find or steal my knife."
"Your knife?"
Selwyn thought Farold's voice sounded odd, and he glanced over.
"I was killed with your knife?"
Was Farold going to need to be reassured all over again that Selwyn hadn't been the one to kill him? "Yes," Selwyn said.
But all Farold said was "Oh."
"What?" Selwyn asked suspiciously.
"I had your knife," Farold admitted.
"
What?
" Selwyn repeated.
"Don't take that tone with me," Farold warned, sounding much the same as Selwyn's mother would when she said the same thing.
Selwyn refused to be drawn into that argument. "Don't talk to me about tone when you stole my knife."
"I just meant it as a joke," Farold said. "Can't you take a joke? I would have given it back."
"A joke would have been giving it back after a day. You had it for three weeks."
"Yeah, well...," Farold said, but obviously couldn't think of anything else to add. He readjusted his wings. "This isn't getting us anywhere," he sniffed.
Selwyn
still
wanted to shake him until his eyeballs rattled. He took two deep breaths and gritted his teeth. "Did anybody know," he asked through his teeth, "that you had the knife? Like, for example, Linton?"
"No," Farold said slowly, thinking, "not Linton. Merton."
"Merton?" Selwyn repeated in amazement. Merton was brother to his best friend, Raedan—and also a friend. Or, at least, Selwyn had thought he was a friend. It was bad enough realizing that—all those days he'd been frantically searching for the missing knife—Merton had known where it was. That made him as bad as Farold. But worse yet was what had happened at Bowden's house: when, under Bowden's questioning, Selwyn had explained that he'd lost the blade, and Merton had agreed that this was so. And never a mention that Farold had had the knife all along. Not even when Bowden pronounced that the knife being missing for so long proved that Selwyn had been
planning
to murder Farold.
"Merton knew you had my knife?" he asked, just to make sure he was understanding correctly. "All along?" It couldn't have been all along.
"He was the one who found it," Farold said. "You dropped it that day everybody was helping Snell's widow with the hay mowing. Merton found it in the grass after we'd finished eating, and we thought it would be a good joke, after you'd been showing off with it, as usual—"
"I...," Selwyn protested, interrupting. But he couldn't deny it. He
was
proud of the knife his father had brought back from the wars. He
did
have a tendency to take it out whenever he had an excuse to show off the elaborate handle, the finely wrought blade of high-quality steel that honed to a much sharper edge than the villagers' common blades.
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