Vic liked to whistle as he worked. In his mind it was
a pastime that delivered cheer to an otherwise depressing setting. Around him
bodies lay under sheets, their toe tags flapping in the draft. First on his
schedule was a Miss Marie Delvigne and, while her occupation was left blank,
any man within three villages knew of the trade she plied. She’d been found
face down in her own vomit and it made the other ladies like her jumpy. He was
aware of a wet spot forming on his pelvis as her body oozed and leaked on the
table.
“You
could have warned me,” he said, and gestured at the stain.
Miss
Marie Delvigne responded with her death mask.
He
snorted at his own joke and continued to examine her cranium.
“You
were a beauty, no doubt about that.”
He
spotted unusual bruising along the back of her neck, just below her hairline.
Her plait seemed to move of its own accord.
“Drat.”
He splashed liquid paraffin over her head. “Lice.”
“I’m
not interrupting am I?” Fincher appeared at the door.
“No.
Just getting an infestation under control. What brings you here?”
Fincher
cleared his throat. “I was wondering whether I could look at Sebastian Faulkner
again.”
Vic
stopped working and stared at him. “You hate corpses.”
“Yes.”
He
wiped his hands on his apron. “All right. It will give the jumpers time to
expire.” Vic led the way. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
“Something
you said about the way he was killed. Can’t wrap my head around it.”
They
reached familiar feet and Vic pulled back the sheet. Fincher flinched.
“You really need to start getting
used to this,” said Vic. “Death is part of life.”
“Talk me through what’s happening
here.” Fincher squinted at the torso.
“Like I said, whoever did this was
an expert. He’s been sliced open. I think the murderer has a good understanding
of anatomy.”
“So the slices killed him?”
“No, dying killed him.”
Fincher scowled.
“Mortician’s humour.” He cleared
his throat. “Look, all along here are cuts. Um. Think of when your wife splays
a chicken. She breaks the sternum first, yes?”
Fincher turned green.
“That’s the hard part. Once the
sternum is broken, it’s easy to kill him. But whoever did this took it further
and sliced him along the intercostal muscles at the ribs. See here? The pain
must have been excruciating. They wanted him to suffer. I suppose that, when he
fell unconscious, they broke through the ribs and stabbed his lung. It would
have filled with blood in no time.” Vic looked at Fincher, who was grey. “In
essence, he would have drowned in his own blood.” He retrieved a bag from the
shelf below the body and opened it. “I examined the sheets – you said he was
found in the bed?”
“Yes.”
“The sheets show no sign of
struggle. Look: these stains are from where he lay. So, he must’ve been fast
asleep. Or he knew his assailant.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Vic frowned.
“Faulkner raped one of the girls
at Latchberry – Susie’s her name.”
“Yes, I heard the rumours.” He
pulled the sheet over Sebastian’s face. “You think she was involved?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it was Sasha Doyle.
She claims she doesn’t remember anything.”
Vic replaced the sheets on the
shelf and stepped in the direction of his office. “She knew him well?”
“I’m told they were best friends.
Susie worked for her. Maybe it was revenge.”
“Possibly. Or perhaps a crime of
passion.”
“You mean jealousy?”
“Why not?” He stared at Fincher.
“Don’t tell me you understand the inner workings of a woman?”
Fincher raised his hands. “I
thought you were the expert since you spend half your life up to the elbows in
them.”
Vic guffawed until his eyes
watered. “Finally. Someone who understands Mortician’s humour.”
Fincher grinned and shifted his
weight.
“Stay for tea,” said Vic. “I don’t
fancy finding out that prostitute’s secrets just yet.”
Susie was back and busy. Sasha doubted the downstairs
rooms had ever been so thoroughly swept and polished. By unspoken agreement,
Susie would expend her energy on making the living areas sparkle and the
bedrooms would be seen to next week. They both knew the guest room could not be
avoided forever.
Sasha was holding the Doyle family
Bible in her hands. On the second page of the tome, which had become dog-eared
with use and spittle on thumbs, was a list of her forebears. Her brothers
Lawrence, Jeremy and William had died in infancy. Her mother and father never
recovered and had given up hope of having more children. Her father believed
that the sins of his ancestors were being vested on him and Morag, and his love
for his wife turned to indifference. Morag believed she was dead inside until
she felt the first flutter of what would turn out to be Sasha, and she hid her
pregnancy from Edward. When he found her in the barn on the day of the Great
Tempest, clutching her belly and writhing in pain, he declared that his child
would be a burden in their old age. Later, when the midwife presented a girl to
Edward, his indifference dissolved. Her fist clutched his thumb and thawed his
spirit. He saw young Morag in her face and berated himself for wasted time.
Morag’s relief gave way to exhaustion, and when they realised that she was
bleeding internally, it was too late. Sasha became the recipient of her
father’s love and guilt until he died on her eighth birthday.
She
looked at the dates again. It seemed impossible to believe that she was the
last of the Doyles. She stood and looked out of the window at Latchberry Farm.
For the past five years she had worked to turn it into a site of productivity.
It had become something of a ruin in the hands of the magistrates who were
responsible for its upkeep until her twenty-fifth birthday. All the hours she
had spent as a governess to the children of the lord mayor had strengthened her
resolve to claim her rightful inheritance. One does not teach crop rotation
without learning a thing or two, she would tell herself. Not that she needed to
know all that much about farming in the end. There had always been men willing
to help, and she had a reliable team on her side. But it had not been enough.
She could not seem to make a profit and was persuaded to sell the land beyond
the forest to a newcomer called Jacob Mortimer. She had expected someone older.
His mother’s age, perhaps.
Over the past three years her
feelings for Jacob had become confused. He was handsome in a way that was
linked to his seeing too much sun. He was strong from wrestling sheep and hay.
He was kind and caring as far as his mother allowed. His mother.
“Would you like some tea, ma’am?”
Susie hovered behind her. “I’ve baked a cake you might want to try too. It’s
sponge. Your favourite.”
Sasha turned. “Susie, do you think
Jacob loves me?”
There was a flicker of unchecked
emotion on her face. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Why? Why does he love me when I
do not love him?”
Susie looked surprised. “I don’t
know.” She noticed Sasha’s fists at her side. “The tea is downstairs, ma’am.”
Sasha nodded, and tears fell from
her eyes. The salted drops darkened her mourning clothes.
Why did you lie, Sasha?
She grabbed the Bible off the bed
and hid it in her chest of drawers. She screwed her eyes shut, willing them to
squeeze out the last of her emotions.
You think that you kill the people you love? You know that’s not
true. I’m still here.
Fanny was darning Hugh’s socks when he arrived.
“How
are my two favourites?”
“Asleep
and sleepy. There’s coffee on the stove.”
“Thank
you.”
“Something
is bothering you.”
“You
say that like it’s a fact.”
“It
is a fact.”
Hugh
smiled. “You’re right. It’s George. He seems to think that Fincher is going to
show up at any time and arrest him for Sebastian’s murder.”
“I
don’t think he should worry.”
“Nor
do I, but he won’t listen.” He poured coffee for himself. “Susie was back at
work today. I think she shifted about a ton of dust from the house with her
bustling.”
Fanny
laughed. “As long as she’s not hiding at home and feeling sorry for herself.”
“Well
rather her than me. I couldn’t stand the idea of working in a place where a man
died.”
“You
work with dead animals all the time.”
“That’s
different. No sheep is ever likely to wish me a good morning.”
Their
laughter roused Cara.
“I’ll
take her,” said Hugh. He picked up his daughter and covered her face in kisses.
Fanny’s
heart swelled. “Take her to watch the sunset. I’ll set the table for dinner.”
When they reached the door, she said: “Will George join us?”
“I
don’t think George will be joining anyone but Susie for the foreseeable
future.” He bobbed Cara in his arms as he stepped out.
The weight in George’s pocket bumped against his
thigh as he walked. He was moving too fast, slowing down and then picking up
his pace again. It was difficult to know which speed to choose on a day like
this. He had seen Susie leave Latchberry Farm fifteen minutes earlier, so he
knew she would be at home. The day was fading as he turned up the road to her
cottage, and the lamp on her table shone like a pilot light in the window. He
saw the curtains shudder; she was expecting him. The door opened.
“You
came. I didn’t think you would.”
“I
had to.” He took off his hat.
“Come
in.”
“Would
you come out here for a moment?”
She
hesitated, then pulled her shawl around her and joined him.
He
took her hand.
“George,
you’re cold. Let’s go inside.” Her shawl slipped.
“Susie
Ann Baker. I have loved you for six years, nine months and twelve days. I want
to go on loving you for the rest of my life.” He dropped her hand and fumbled
in his pocket. He placed a velvet box on her palm and kneeled. “Please say you
will be my wife.”
Susie
opened the box and a ruby ring rested in the satin. She knew it had belonged to
his mother. “I don’t think I can, George.”
His face fell.
“Not while you’re on the floor.”
He leapt up and kissed her smile.
“Woman, you will be the death of me.”
She hugged him and let him lead
her inside.
Jacob had been in a foul mood since their last
conversation. Amelia thought it best to leave him to work it out on his own. It
was not in her nature to back down. And after the way he’d spoken to her, she
would let him come crawling. She did not attempt to make conversation over
dinner and listened to the way he thrashed his utensils against the dishes.
Part of her was itching to ask him what he was working on in the barn, but she didn’t
want to provoke him. She hardly heard his muttered thanks for dinner, and was
now washing the last of the plates before going to bed herself. It was almost
like being back in her father’s house where the men and women led separate
lives. She had promised herself that Jacob would know the meaning of respect.
If she couldn’t give him a respectable name then she would have to create a
respectable legacy. It was just a surprise to her that she still had to fight
him at his age. The feelings of ingratitude usually subsided once his romances
soured, but the Sasha Doyle saga didn’t show any signs of going away.
There
was a knock at the door. “Mr Fincher? I hardly expected to see you at this
hour.”
“Apologies,
Mrs Mortimer. Is Jacob in?”
“He’s
in the barn. He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“No,
ma’am. I wanted to ask him some more questions about...”
“My
son knows nothing else, Mr Fincher. I insist you stop wasting his time with
your questions. Speak to the hussy beyond the trees if you wish to know more.”
Fincher
stood so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face.
“Amelia,
you know as well as I do that I am just doing my job.”
For
a moment she thought he might kiss her. She stepped back and folded her arms.
“Like
I said, he’s in the barn.”
“Thank
you.” Fincher touched the brim of his hat and stalked across the yard.
Amelia’s
heart pounded. Surely he’d got over that infantile attempt to woo her? She
closed the door. It had been rather endearing when he’d sent the Valentine, but
courting him was out of the question. She was Amelia Mortimer and he was one up
from a Bobby on the beat. There was no way that she could stoop to that kind of
connection, even if his appeal was carnal for the most part. She took her lamp
and went to bed.
Jacob turned to see who was coming towards him.
“Hullo
Finch.” He put down his tools and met him at the door. “What brings you here?”
Fincher
gestured inside the barn. “Jacob, could we talk for a moment?” When he saw his
brow furrow, he said, “You’re not in trouble, lad.”
They
sat at the bench and Jacob picked up his file and the piece of wood he was
working on.
“I’ve
been talking to the mortician.”
“Vic?”
“The
same. He was showing me how Sebastian died. It’s bad.”
“Yes.”
Jacob fiddled with the wood.
“It’s
just... I know we’ve covered this already, Jacob, but I need you to tell me
exactly what happened when you got to the house. Really think. And if you left
out something before because you thought it wasn’t important, tell me now.”
“Where
are you going with this, Fincher?”
He
held up his hand. “From the beginning. Please.”
Jacob
took a deep breath. “I was going to see Sasha. I walked up to the house and saw
the fire going in the hearth. The door was open and I knew something was wrong.
When I got there, I found her on the floor. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t
respond to me. There was a smashed lamp lying next her. Her dog, Fred, was by
the fire.”
“You’re
sure she was unconscious.”
“Yes.”
He
scribbled on his notepad. “What happened next?”
“Well,
I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, and her dog was calm. I tried to
wake her and then, when she didn’t, I carried her upstairs.”
“Was
that when you put her to bed?”
Jacob
nodded.
“Go
on.”
“I
went to see if Sebastian was still asleep. I mean, I hadn’t exactly been quiet
about getting Sasha upstairs.”
“That’s
when you found him?”
“He
was staring at me and his mouth was open. I saw blood on his nightshirt and
then I ran.”
“To
your mother?”
“Yes. Well, no. I went to get my
horse and that’s when I rode to your house with the news.”
“And
you didn’t see or hear anything else?”
“No.”
Jacob resumed filing the wood. “It was dark, Finch. I was lucky I didn’t run
into a tree on my way home.”
Fincher
frowned at his notes. “Thank you, Jacob. You’ve... You’ve been very helpful.”
“Am
I right in saying that you have a suspect?”
Fincher
nodded. “Vic thinks that Sebastian knew whoever killed him. He didn’t struggle
or resist – as far as we can tell.”
“You
don’t think...”
“It fits,
Jacob. She had the motive and he was staying in her house.”
“You’re
wrong.” He shouted despite their closeness.
“And
I suppose you have a better idea? A more likely candidate? I have to go on
evidence, Jacob. Sasha fits the bill.”
His voice
was quiet. “It can’t be her.”
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