CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“So, Westleigh. It’s been what, a few weeks now? How is married life treating you?”
Stephen barely heard the unknown buck’s polite enquiry over the sheer din in the overcrowded ballroom, but before he could answer he was interrupted by a bark of laughter.
“In that the man barely leaves his house nowadays and even turned down a coveted dinner invitation from yours truly the other night,” said Thomas, lifting his glass in a salute. “I’d say passing well. By the by, Westleigh, did no one tell you it’s not the done thing to send one’s wife lustful, yearning glances across a crowded ballroom?”
He glared at the Marquess of Ardmore. Pure exaggeration from someone who knew far better. He was merely keeping an eye on Caroline’s progress as she made her way from group to group, accepting well wishes, complimenting their gowns and hair, keeping her promise not to overturn a punchbowl on a certain young baroness. If Lady Beecham was smart she would give Caroline the widest of berths, but the woman wasn’t exactly known for her mental capacity.
“It is a crush, is it not? Your dear sisters must be absolutely thrilled. Very kind of you to volunteer as host.”
Thomas scowled, and gestured for him to walk. “Like I had a choice. The girls have perfected trench warfare, it is tears and pleading one day, whisky theft and carriage malfunctions the next. I keep increasing their dowries, but reputation precedes them everywhere. As for Mother…God, you wouldn’t believe what tonight is costing. Peach silk on the walls, five kinds of flowers, ice sculptures, champagne fountains, French desserts, musicians…it’s bloody ridiculous.”
“Actually I would believe. Every year Mama employs half of London in an attempt to outdo herself with her parties. When the bills come in, I have to lie down for a week.”
“Women.”
“Indeed,” Stephen replied as they paused next to a giant Greek urn overflowing with peach and white flowers. “Why don’t you send your mother to the dower house? Confine the girls to their rooms until they learn who is in charge?”
“Tried that once. Mother returned in an hour stating the place was draughty and a spider haven, but if I was so enamored of it, I could live there. As for my sisters, some unspeakable bastard taught them to pick locks and tie sheets together. I believe it was your brother-in-law, unfortunately I have insufficient proof.”
“How could you possibly suspect someone so angelic?”
“Guess I’m just one of those cynical types. Damn. Thank God for my faithful companions wine, whisky and brandy is all I can say. Only they can dull my pain.”
“Pain is truly undervalued. Been propping up the country since the beginning of time.”
“Yes it has. But Westleigh, if your marrying someone you like rubbish catches on, there’ll be contented men everywhere. Contented men don’t drink nearly as much as miserable men, the English economy will collapse.”
“What?” Stephen said, stifling a snort. “Who says I like her? Caroline is stubborn, willful, impatient…not to mention eager to hurl heavy objects at my head. Or cripple me with her damned heels.”
“Then it’s just as well you married her and not Shilton. Nice enough fellow, but all that delectably wrapped pertness would have eventually wilted away.”
“Excuse me?”
“Shilton is a stuffed shirt. Gets it from his mother.”
“No. After that.”
Thomas blinked and took a large gulp of whisky. “Er, apparently there are men who admire ample curves, mile-long legs and a saucy mouth. Not me though. Ugh.”
“How fortunate. As for the drinking economy, so long as there is war, politics and impoverished aristocrats forced to wed horse-faced heiresses, I’m sure it will survive.”
“Then here’s to brave men, democracy, and ugly, rich women. God bless them all.”
They clinked glasses and drank in silence for several minutes, enough for Stephen to again scan the lavishly decorated ballroom. As she was taller than most in the room and wearing a striking silver gown, his wife was easy to spot.
Stephen smiled to himself. Caroline didn’t know it yet, but she and her mother would no longer be troubled by Sir Malcolm. The man thought he held all the power, but this morning had discovered otherwise. His bankers leaned on. Damning documentation gathered and filed. Stark promises of dire retribution made with the knowledge and backing of the highest level of government, should a hair on Caroline or Emily’s head be hurt again. God, that had felt good, but not nearly as good as a right hook, left jab combination sending the bastard bloodied and sprawling into the corner of his library. Sir Malcolm ruled by fear, and targeted those who couldn’t fight back. Today he’d learned the consequences of such actions.
“Christ, Stephen. That is a frightening expression you’re sporting. Care to share?”
“Just thinking of some business I took care of earlier. Speaking of business, Tom, how goes the world?”
“Don’t ask.”
Guilt flared. Just for a moment Thomas’ mask had slipped and he’d seen a man truly weary of the world. Was Stephen such a bad friend that he didn’t even know something troublesome had occurred? “What’s wrong? A lost ship? Some clerk embezzled you out of millions and skipped away to the continent?”
“Not even close.”
“Ah. Some cunning highwaymen commandeered a delivery of whisky and now an entire village is hunting you down with flaming torches and pitchforks.”
Thomas half-smiled. “If only. Compared to the truth, I actually wouldn’t mind one of those scenarios. This morning, crew six was unloading a ship at the docks and next thing they knew a bloated and rather fish-nibbled body bobbed up beside them.”
“Jesus. A dockworker? Someone they recognized?”
“Worse. A young woman.”
Stephen froze, then coughed as bile gathered in the back of his throat. “Do…do they know who it was?”
“Can’t remember her name, but I’m pretty sure the newspaper mentioned it and included a sketch of her. Apparently went missing about two or three days ago. No accident though, poor thing’s wrists were bound.”
“Show me the article.”
Thomas’ glass halted in midair. “We’re in the middle of a ball.”
“I need to see it. Right now.”
“Christ Almighty, Stephen. Oh very well, I think the newspaper is in my library still. Come with me.”
Discreetly ducking out of the ballroom, they strode to Thomas’ sanctuary. It was about as masculine a room as you could find, all ebony wood, dark greens and maroons, although the graphic war paintings and mounted animal heads were a new and grotesque touch.
“Been redecorating, I see,” Stephen said, practically rocking on the spot to stop himself shoving his friend out of the way and searching for the newspaper himself.
Thomas looked up from where he was sifting through a pile of documents. “Not a fan myself, but the ladies hate the new look and won’t set foot in here. I tolerate the monstrosities for glorious peace and quiet. Ah, here we go. Page three.”
Spreading out the newspaper across Thomas’ desk, Stephen began to read. Then his gaze darted sideways to the sketch.
The world spun.
Closing his eyes he bowed his head, gripping the edge of the desk in the event he embarrassed himself totally and passed out like an overexcited deb.
“Stephen? You’ve gone green. Don’t you dare decorate my Aubusson.”
“I won’t. At least I think I won’t.”
“What the hell is going on?”
Hauling himself across the room, Stephen slumped into a chair. “A few days ago, Caroline and I went to Wapping docks to visit Kimbolton, Sir John Smythe and Avery Wynn-Thorne at their offices, and discuss some business matters.”
“I know where they are located,” said Thomas, his face unreadable. “Continue.”
“We were just about to take a tour of a ship when that girl,” he muttered, gesturing loosely at the newspaper, “dashed down the corridor toward us to ask Kimbolton some questions. It was odd. Damned odd.”
“What was?”
“The whole bloody thing. Almost like watching a play, except she, Clara Matthews I mean, forgot her lines and got the ship captain’s name wrong.”
‘So?”
“So, the next words to come out of her mouth were ‘I didn’t mean it, please don’t kill me.”
Thomas’ eyes bulged. “Hell.”
“Exactly.”
“You have to inform the East India Company marine police force.”
“I will. But it might be nothing. As soon as she said the words Kimbolton and the others laughed like she’d made some splendid joke. She eventually laughed too and left the place completely unscathed and very much alive. And now…damn. She was so young. And her family…how bloody awful for them.”
“Indeed,” Thomas said, rubbing the darkened stubble on his chin. “Let me speak to that crew again, and those who have been working the night shifts. If there is something else to know, my men will tell me. Then you can decide what to do.”
Stephen nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Consider it done. But before we go back to the ballroom, I’d love to know what the hell you are doing getting mixed up with the likes of Sir John Smythe, though. The man is an utter pig.”
“Yes, but Kimbolton, Wynn-Thorne and the other group member Major Rochland seem all right. They want me to join them in a few ventures. Take over some of the charitable projects Gregory started.”
“Charitable projects?” Thomas snickered, the Scottish accent he always tried to disguise suddenly distinct. “Gregory? I doubt that. He first started pinching pennies ‘til they screamed at Cambridge, and it only got worse after you left on your Grand Tour. He wouldn’t agree to anything unless there was a hefty profit involved.”
Stephen stiffened. “No, you’re wrong. According to the others this was something close to his heart. He didn’t care if it resulted in a loss.”
“I see. Did the others actually show you the books?”
“No, but—”
“Hell, my friend. You really need to remove the eye patch when it comes to your brother. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Gregory was nowhere near a saint.”
Stephen leapt to his feet. “You’re a fine one to talk.”
“Touché. All I’m saying is don’t let fraternal devotion cloud your otherwise impeccable judgment. I’ve heard the odd whisper…”
“Oh, not you too,” he snarled. “Whispers. Everybody tells me about goddamned whispers. Yet no one has presented a shred of proof the group is anything but above board.”
“Apart from one very dead Clara Matthews.”
Flinching, he sank back down on the chair. This was a mess. A giant bloody horrendous mess that had left his mind whirling like a spinning top. Ardmore was no fool, he’d walked the line between dark and light for years. Yet how could everything he believed about his brother be wrong?
“All right,” Stephen said heavily. “Tell me what you know. And don’t sugar coat it.”
“Very well. I know that I’ve done business with some characters over the years. Stupid ones. Mean ones. Men who were thieving criminals in everything but name. But I wouldn’t do business with Kimbolton and co back when they started, and I wouldn’t do business with them now.”
“Why not?”
Thomas leaned on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “Gregory changed when he met them. Slowly, but definitely. He’d always been reserved as you know, but he became very, very cold. Nasty and calculating. In the end I had very little to do with him, because I could scarcely believe he was the same man Standish, Southby and I had been such good friends with. Actually, for the longest time…”
“What?”
Thomas pinned him with a look. “For the longest time I wondered if Gregory’s death truly was an accident. Being shot by poachers is conveniently easy to achieve and hard to disprove, especially when the culprits are never found.”
Agony tore through him. “After two fucking years, you’re telling me this?”
“You weren’t hurling yourself towards trouble previously. Also, you have a wife now. Maybe soon you’ll have a bair…baby on the way. Don’t put them at risk.”
Oh, this was beyond anything. Maybe Gregory made the odd mistake, maybe he had been a bit detached at the end there, but to say he’d been executed instead of accidentally shot? Gross speculation. Obviously the authorities agreed, they investigated thoroughly and closed both his brother’s and father’s cases swiftly. As for the insult of a warning not to put Caroline or a potential unborn child in danger, it was only their long history that stopped him arranging a dawn appointment.
“I am well aware of my marital status, Ardmore,” Stephen bit out. “And my responsibilities. You’re only four years older than me, hardly an elder statesman, so you can take your sanctimonious horseshit and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Excuse me.”
Storming from a room never felt so good.
~ * ~
Cretins!
Fiercely tamping down her annoyance at being abandoned to a group of the crustiest dowagers in the history of the world, Caroline let her gaze roam the ballroom for a rescuer.
There were none. Stephen and Ardmore had stridden away somewhere looking rather serious, and George was holding court in front of a parade of adoring females on the other side of the room. Standish and Southby were in the far right corner drinking brandy and talking politics with Prime Minister Liverpool and Foreign Secretary Castlereagh, while studiously ignoring the over-loud Prince Regent’s set who were laughing at some no doubt terrible joke. Prinny wasn’t exactly known for his wit, but certainly for careless generosity toward groveling favorites. For heaven’s sake, even bloody Taff had disappeared after spending a good half-hour with a gaggle of fresh-faced debutantes. Ten minutes later, after the sixty-fifth woman pressed her to ‘do share the ball story, dear, and of course how you find marriage to the divine Lord Westleigh!’ Caroline had had enough.
Clearing her throat, she attempted one of George’s angelic, ‘you will do my bidding without delay’ smiles. “Terribly sorry, ladies, but my husband desires my presence. Excuse me.”
Before anyone could reply, she marched forward, giving them the options of a graceful sidestep or inelegant flying sprawl. Luckily all chose to sidestep, and she hurried to the other side of the ballroom. As long as she avoided eye contact with anyone, the pretense she had a specific mission could be maintained. At one stage she thought she saw Taff taking a note from a footman, but when she looked again, he had gone. Damnation. Even his unblinking stares and inappropriate comments were better than a grande dame group interrogation.
“Caroline.”
Relieved beyond measure, she swung around. “Stephen. Finally. Where on earth have you be…why are you looking like that?”
“Like what?” he snapped, his shoulders rigid as a statue. Oh dear. She could practically feel anger flowing from him, but there were too many people around with elephant ears and gossipy tongues to undertake a truly pointed cross-examination.
Helplessly she gazed at him, desperate to offer comfort. All the while knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any kind of overt physical touch in public, let alone a warm hug. The fact that he had left the ballroom with Ardmore, but returned alone suggested they might have quarreled about something. But what? The pair weren’t as close as Stephen and George, however always seemed to get on well due to a shared love of business and unconventional yet ridiculously successful methods of approaching their ventures. As far as she knew they weren’t currently partners in any projects, so it couldn’t be that. A personal matter? Something to do with their marriage?
Alarmed, she pasted a smile on her face. “Like you wish you were in a boxing ring rather than a ballroom, so you could pummel someone into the floorboards.”
Stephen lifted a hand and rubbed his chin. “Don’t ask.”
“Of course I’m going to ask. Where is Ardmore?”
He sighed. “Because you’ll harangue me until I tell you, The Marquess and I—”
“Excuse me, Westleigh, can we talk a moment?”
Her husband spun around at the tap on his shoulder. “Yes? Oh, hello, Taff.”
Taff frowned. “Sorry to disturb. Is something wrong? You don’t look well.”
Caroline looked skyward for patience, wanting to scream in frustration at the interruption. Stephen had been about to confide in her, she was sure of it. Damned interloper and his exquisite timing yet again.
“He’s fine,” she said crisply, tucking her arm through Stephen’s. “My husband was just the victim of a heel and run, an enormous dowager on the hunt for an eligible supper partner for her equally graceful daughter. As a married man, Westleigh is boiled cabbage.”
“Why thank you,” said Stephen drily, but his expression lightened at least. “Did you need something, Taff?”
“Well, I—”
“We were just about to venture onto the dance floor,” said Caroline, trying not to evil-eye the man and failing somewhat.
Taff nodded. “A fine idea. Actually, I just wanted to let you both know I’m feeling a little poorly, so might make my way back to Forsyth House. Bit stuffy and crowded in here for me, making the old body ache a bit. Must admit I’ve also had my fill of peach.”
Stephen relaxed further. “Know the feeling. Do you want to take my carriage and send it back later?”
“No, no. With the number of people about your carriage could be anywhere. I’ll stroll down the street a little and find a hackney. Bound to be plenty around. Enjoy the rest of your evening, I’ll see you both in the morning.”
With that, Taff inclined his head then turned and made his way towards the main entrance of Ardmore’s sprawling townhouse.
She glanced at Stephen, but his expression was rather remote again, and soon they were joined by several other men who bowed politely then proceed to ignore her as they questioned him on estate matters. Double damnation. Doubts began to circle, making her stomach churn. Life had been so blissful the last few days, after spending a decent amount of time together, he’d even asked her to join him in the earl’s enormous bedchamber the previous evening. It took a little work, wriggling into positions which kept both their sore shoulders unjostled, but waking up this morning with her head pillowed on his chest, his arm actually curved around her, had been nothing short of perfection.
Right. Enough was enough.
“Westleigh,” she said loudly, deliberately interrupting some old boot boring the rest of the crowd to sleep with a tale about wheat and barley crops. “You have yet to dance with me.”
A few of the men laughed.
“Gads, my lord! Shameful behavior from a newlywed,” said one.
“If you won’t oblige your pretty countess, I’ll certainly volunteer,” cackled another.
Stephen made an exaggeratedly long-suffering sigh. “You’re right, gentlemen. I’d better do my duty or God knows what it will cost me in jewelry. Sounds like they are just starting a waltz. My dear?”
Caroline took his hand. “I’d be delighted.”
“Excellent. Excuse us, everyone.”
“Tell me what happened with Ardmore,” she asked boldly, as soon as he began twirling her around the dance floor.
“You didn’t forget.”
“Never. Hurry up.”
He frowned. “It’s not a ballroom conversation. Especially not his ballroom.”
“Then let’s leave his ballroom and go home right now. I know you don’t want to be here. Actually I think most people know that, you’ve been rather sharp with a few of them in the past half hour.”
“Except they are about to serve supper. You’d really give up a table that includes meringues, raspberry gateaux and crème brulee?”
French desserts? No one mentioned they were serving French desserts!
“Yes,” she said bravely.
Stephen actually smiled, the hand at her waist gripping a fraction tighter. “A very noble sacrifice, wife, but I won’t deprive you of your sweets. We’ll have supper then leave.”
“After which you’ll tell me everything?”
“Everything you need to know.”
Oh, her husband was lucky glares couldn’t melt a man to treacle. Ardmore’s staff would never be able to scrub the stain from the floor. “It doesn’t work like that, Stephen. I am a grown woman who neither wants nor needs to be protected from bad news. I’ve coped well enough with it in the past and cannot see that changing in the future.”
“Damn it, Caroline, stop—”
“Acting like a wife?” she said impatiently, bobbing into a curtsy when the music came to a grand, flourishing finish. “No.”
He scowled. “Let’s just go and have supper, shall we?”
By the time they reached the tables practically groaning with exquisitely presented food her appetite completely deserted her, but she forced herself to add a small slice of gateaux to a fine china plate. After all his mutterings Stephen didn’t add much more to his, only two glazed berry tarts and a single meringue. Unfortunately their attempt at a swift exit was thwarted by another long stream of guests wanting to chat and wish them well. It was another full hour before they made their way down the wide front steps and across the neatly cobblestoned and lantern-lit courtyard, to where their carriage waited amongst dozens of others.
“How long do you think it will take to get out of here?” she asked.
“Depends how much time is required to tear the coachmen away from their card game. They are all over there in the far corner, see?”
“Of course I can see, I’m not blind.”
“Westleigh, you filthy bloody bastard!”
They both froze.
~ * ~
If this didn’t beat all.
Peering furiously into the gloom where the loud, slurred voice had come from, Stephen yanked Caroline behind him. “Who’s there?” he snarled.
A familiar brown-haired, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the shadows and sketched a mocking bow. “Just I.”
“Rochland? What the devil is wrong with you, skulking around in the dark and three sheets to the wind?”
Beside him, Caroline tapped her foot impatiently, clearly as fed up as he was.
“Perhaps, sir,” she said tersely, “you need to return to your lodgings and sleep it off.”
“I would, my dear Lady Westleigh,” the soldier replied, “but first I need to kill your husband…”
What the hell? For a split second, astonishment held him immobile. Then he laughed. Except Rochland didn’t laugh with him, just watched with cold, flat eyes, like a snake about to strike.
“Rochland,” he began placatingly, the back of his neck prickling wildly. “I think—”
But the major continued as if he hadn’t said a word. “…or at least arrange a time to kill him. What say you, Westleigh? Dawn in some clearing? I’ve heard you are more than handy with a pistol so I choose swords. Name your seconds.”
“I’m not naming anything,” Stephen snapped. “Is this some sort of joke? Did someone put you up to it? Because I have to say it is in extremely poor taste.”
“Wrong,” said Rochland, half stalking, half stumbling forward, righteous fury etched across his face. “Extremely poor taste is you accusing me of murdering some young lightskirt. I’ve never even met a Clara Matthews.”
Caroline swayed, her fingers clawing his arm. “Wh…what? Clara from the docks, Clara? She’s dead, Stephen?”
“Yes,” he bit out, furious at the other man for his lunatic ramblings. Not even drunkenness could excuse this. “But I don’t know what the hell you are talking about, Major, I never accused you of anything.”
“I got a very detailed note this evening,” said Rochland, now mere feet away. “Which makes you a filthy liar as well as a bastard. You’re not fit to hold the title. You’re not a quarter of the man Hallmere was.”
Every muscle in Stephen’s body turned to stone. “You’re drunk,” he said quietly. “I suggest you take my wife’s advice and go sleep it off. Hopefully you won’t remember in the morning exactly how ridiculously you acted.”
Rochland smiled. In a surprisingly swift action, he swung his fist at Stephen’s face, bone and bone connecting with a sickening, painful crunch. Damn. He reeled at the unexpected blow, his ear ringing, yet still heard Caroline’s muffled scream.
“Major Rochland,” she hissed. “What are you doing? Stephen are you all right?”
“Stay well back,” Stephen growled, shucking off his dark blue superfine jacket in one harsh movement, arm swiping at the small trickle of blood escaping from a cut cheek. “The soldier and I have matters to discuss.”
As soon as Caroline scrambled to the relative safety of a spot between two empty carriages, he threw a brutal right hook of his own, and Rochland’s head snapped backwards. Good. It seemed his ‘discussion’ with Sir Malcolm had been an adequate warm up. Rochland eventually came back at him hard, but he easily feinted left to avoid it, then plowed a fist into the other man’s stomach. Tonight they wouldn’t be exchanging a few blows, spitting a few curses then sharing a bottle somewhere. There was a dark, ugly undercurrent here, like Rochland truly wanted a fight to the death.
But why? He’d only met the man the other day. And as for that horseshit about a written murder accusation…
A weak jab barely grazed his shoulder, and he immediately retaliated with a left cross/right uppercut combination to his opponent’s face.
“Oooof,” groaned Rochland as he stumbled, his cheek puffy and one eye rapidly swelling shut.
Stephen gritted his teeth. All icing and no cake, but the soldier refused to slink away. He glanced again at the group of coachmen. Still engrossed in their cards and utterly useless, but the fewer witnesses to this madness, the better. The last thing he wanted was an appearance in the scandal rags due to this Bedlamite.
“Rochland,” he muttered, “For God’s sake—”
“That all you got, Westleigh?” the major spat, wiping sweat, blood flecks and spittle from his chin with a sleeve. “Opium-eating milksop. Soon as I’m finished with you, I’m going to fuck your wife all night. Body like hers is made for punishment, bet she’d beg for it too. With us both having brown hair, no one will ever know the brat is mine. Except you.”
Thud.
Rochland sprawled on the hard cobblestones, blood gushing from a thoroughly misshapen nose. Yet seconds later a bone-chilling roar reverberated as the man rolled onto his knees, launched himself up at Stephen and bear-hugged him in a wrestling hold, his boot heels scraping the ground as he tried to hook a foot around Stephen’s ankle and trip him over.
He could hear Caroline’s frightened gasps in the background, but didn’t dare take his eyes off his opponent. Not when they were spinning around and around, him forcing a forearm under Rochland’s chin to shove him away, the soldier hanging on like a barnacle.
“Oi! What’s goin’ on!”
Time slowed to a crawl, and he couldn’t exactly say how the next events actually came about. In the space of a moment, four coachmen were sprinting towards them and Rochland’s whole body jerked and collapsed hard against him.
“Bassstard…” the soldier hissed, the unnatural sound sending cold chills down his spine. Stephen staggered backwards under the inert weight, lost his footing on the uneven ground and fell heavily.
“Stephen?” said Caroline, and he wanted to see her, reassure that apart from seeing stars he was fine. That Rochland had just passed out, but he couldn’t get the drunken fool off him.
Suddenly she screamed.
“Ma’am?” said an urgent but unfamiliar voice. “Ma’am? What’s wrong?”
There was a long pause, then someone else breathed “Jaysus…”
Stephen blinked furiously, trying to wade through the fog in his brain. Christ, Rochland was heavy. And wet. How could anyone sweat so much? Yet even as the thought lodged, he stilled at a horrifically familiar scent. Not sickly-sweet, but metallic. Blood. Lots of it. As from a mortal wound. Had he been shot? He didn’t seem to hurt anywhere except a tender cheek from Rochland’s first blow and a bruised backside, but he was cold and so damned dizzy.
Eventually he managed to coordinate his limbs, and half-slid out from underneath the other man. Then he saw the dagger. Buried solidly to the highly decorated hilt in Rochland’s white-shirted back and surrounded by a large red stain.
A very familiar weapon.
Most recently on display in his own library.
Rocked to the core, he lifted and stared blankly at his blood covered hands. Black spots swirled in his vision and bile burned his stomach and throat.
Had he just killed a man?
“I’m not. I didn’t,” he muttered jerkily. “A doctor. Call for a doctor.”
Two of the coachmen gently lifted Rochland’s body away from Stephen, their eyes flint hard. Accusing. Another knelt down and pressed two fingers to the major’s neck. He shook his head and spat on the ground near Stephen’s boot. “No damned point callin’ for a sawbones. What we need is a constable. Looks like your knife to the back did the poor bugger good and proper, may he rest in peace.”
Horror choked him. He was a murderer.