Chapter 4

That Saturday Alexander Beall left his wife looking at yard goods in the Georgetown store they usually visited, the place their old factor ran, and went off "to get a beer." He found William Wainright, the town's new constable, in his nearby office, introduced himself and asked about the recent killing.

"Not much to tell you, Beall. Just a dead woman 'thout an arm and her throat cut. Most took her head off too, whoever did it."

"Who was she?"

"Name of Miller, Betsy Miller or Nolan perhaps. Sewed for a living. Worked for a dressmaker here in town now and again but more on her own. Lived here most of her life, I'm told, but no family to speak of. Many knew her, liked her. Never in any trouble or anything political."

"Why would she be down by the river?"

"Lived down there in one of those small, wooden houses. Got her feet wet when the Potomac rose. Probably went along there every day."

"And nobody saw nothing?" Beall asked, trying to size up the new constable who was a smallish man that looked like a dandy or milksop in his stylish waistcoat but had a reputation for being both hard and shrewd and deadly with a rifled weapon.

"Nor heard anything either, evidently," said Wainright.

"She married?"

"Kind of, I'd say a Welsh marriage. Lived with a fellow name of James Nolan, fisherman of sorts. He was very upset about it, but he's on my list of suspects. She worked at home mostly and made a fair living I 'spect. More'n he did I'll vow. She was a good dressmaker my wife says, sewed a fine seam."

"Nolan still around?"

"Not sure, probably," answered the natty constable, looking at some papers on his tidy desk.

"All right if I talk to him?"

"Course Beall, but why?"

"Oh, curiosity mostly. Had a case like this out in the County there during the revolution. Never solved. Guess I ain't got over being sheriff." Beall gave Wainright a crooked grin as he stood and pushed back his chair.

"Nolan's usually around the Angler's Tavern down there near the river, know the place?"

"Yep. Thanks. I'll let you know if I hear anything useful."

Another customer pointed Nolan out to Alexander Beall. The man was sitting slumped over at a small table with his head down on his folded arms. Beall sat and put his pewter mug of brown ale down a little harder than he had to.

Jamey Nolan raised his head and opened one eye.

"Mr. Nolan?" asked Beall.

"Right, right." Nolan pulled himself up to a more or less upright position, pushed his hair back and looked at his empty cup.

"You need one?"

"I'd 'ppreciate it, yessir," said Nolan.

Beall waved a hand and pointed at Nolan. A boy brought over a small tin cup of watered rum.

"Thankee," the thin man said drinking off half of it.

"I'm Alex Beall from out at the courthouse, out in the county that ain't no more. Can I ask you a question or two, 'bout your wife?"

"Sure, all right, she were a good woman. Awful shame." He sniffed.

"Who do you think killed her, any idea?"

"No, not really. Was likely some drunk sailor or one of them snooty clients of hers, some washy rogue. They was always coming around, asking for this and that and late in paying too. Bunch a'maggots. Never liked even one of them. Not worth a good fart."

Beall sipped at his beer and watched Nolan, who closed his eyes and rolled his head back and forth.

"Oh, I don't know. Don't make no sense. She didn't have no money with her. Weren't no sign she was raped or anything. Why'd they do that? Take her arm?"

Beall waited quietly watching the man's fingers drum the table.

"Tell you what, come over to my place. She had a list of her good customers. Could read and write, she could. Don't know if that'll help. I jus' thought of it."