The Banshee's Walk by Frank Tuttle

too.”
    Lustful guffaws all around. Gertriss blushed, and she nearly let her nails do to my elbow what they’d done to my face.
    “You’re twiced too old to be chasin’ anything that young,” opined one unseen lounger. “You better stick with old widow Henshaw down the road.”
    More laughter. And then a graphic exchange of speculation involving the Widow Henshaw that was proving far too earthy for Gertriss’s delicate ears.
    I reached behind me, opened the door very quietly and then let it slam shut.
    The wagon nearly flipped over as it disgorged a trio of wide-eyed drovers, all of whom hurriedly set about trying to look busy despite their empty hands and equally empty wagon.
    “Evening, gents,” I said, greeting each with my famous friendly smile. “My name’s Markhat. Who might you be?”
    Sputtering. Exchanges of sideways glances. Three different versions of why it only looked like they’d been idling on the job.
    I held up my hands. “Relax,” I said. “I wasn’t hired to supervise the unloading of turnips. Nobody is going to tell tales later on of a few men taking a break after a long day’s work. I only asked your names to be polite.”
    “Hell, we don’t work for Lady Werewilk anyhow,” said the boldest of the lot. “My name’s Left. This is Tombs. That there is Polton.” He spat. “Must be havin’ quite a feed in there tonight. This was the second wagon-load of vittles.”
    I nodded. “The whole house will be there. Except maybe Weexil. I guess everybody knows about him, though.”
    Left nodded. “Took off. Packed up and left before dawn, not a word. Damndest thing.”
    I kept my mouth shut and looked hopefully expectant. Sometimes it works.
    “Burned all his stuff. Every scrap of it. Least that’s what they say. Old butler found what was left in the oven.”
    “Boots too,” I offered, as though I’d already heard that. I was just guessing.
    “That’s what we can’t figure,” offered Tombs. “Who the hell burns a good pair of boots?”
    Sometimes I’m good at guessing.
    “We need to get the ponies,” said the third man. Maybe he was smarter than his companions, or maybe he just needed a privy, but he’d had enough gabbing with the people from town, friendly smiles or not. “Need to get back on the road.”
    And they went.
    Gertriss and I watched them go.
    I shrugged as soon as they were out of sight.
    “Do you reckon—do you think that this Weexil told someone we were due here today, Mr. Markhat?” asked Gertriss. “Maybe he didn’t want to be around when word got out we’d been murdered on the road.”
    I nodded. “The thought crossed my mind,” I said. Weexil, what had been his last name? Weexil Treegar. Bought all the art supplies for the painters. I tried to remember when the Lady had hired Weexil, decided he’d been there since the first batch of artists had taken up residence—well before the first surveyor’s stake was ever found.
    I motioned in the direction the drovers had taken. “We might as well see the grounds in the daylight,” I said.
    Gertriss walked, frowning. “But why did he burn everything?”
    “He didn’t burn it,” I said. Gertriss sets a good pace. I had to move faster than my customary amble to keep up.
    She turned her face toward mine.
    “If he didn’t, who did?”
    “His lady love, of course. Look. She either wakes to find him gone, or maybe he leaves behind a note of some kind. Either way, she’s not happy. So what does she do?”
    “She finds anything he left behind and she stuffs it in the only fire still burning early in the morning. The cook stove fire.”
    “Which makes me think he left a note,” I said. “Something sappy and overdone. I’d bet you two new horseshoes he even asked her to burn his note in the note. That’s probably what gave her the idea to toss in his boots as well.”
    Gertriss nodded. “Reckon the worthless lying bastard had that coming.” She practically dripped venom when she spoke, and for the