“Ye would never.”
Pushing at him, laughing, shaking her head.“I would. You can eat your ol’ bread and potatoes with Meade, for all I care.”
He tickled her for the threat. She hooted and ducked under his arm, then spun on him with a snowball.
The cold snow exploded at his neck, trickling past his scarf, but by the time he formed his own, she had already fled the alley. He ran, ran hard.“Meg—”
Something banged.
Tom jerked awake, one hand already reaching for Joanie.
“Boy, there’s something out here wot I think you need to see.” Meade’s shadow in the doorway, voice slurred.
Tom turned back to Joanie. “Back to sleep with ye.” Then he ripped the blankets from himself, fumbled to find his shirt, and hurried it over his head. When he stepped out into the hall, he eased the door shut behind him. “What is it?”
Meade took a long swig from his bottle before answering. “The ratcatcher.”
Harsh, orange-glowing lanterns lit the backyard of the galleried coaching inn. Figures clustered together in the small garden: Mr. Willmott, two hostlers, the constable, and young Brownie from the neighboring livery stable.
Tom preceded Meade into the sphere of lantern light. His stomach fell.
Sprawled out beside a shallow hole, a half-decomposed body stared heavenward among cabbage lettuces, gooseberries, and melons. The clothes were clumped with mud. The face indistinguishable. The bones already protruding through the dark sludge of his rotten flesh.
Mr. Willmott handed a handkerchief-wrapped item to Tom. “The hostler here found the fellow. It seems he and the cook had been flogging the poor dog unnecessarily for digging up the garden.”
“Ne’er was so persistent ’bout nothing.” One of the hostlers reached down to rub the ears of his liver-and-white colored mutt. “Figured I best bring a shovel out ’ere and see for myself.”
Tom unwrapped the handkerchief. A dull pocket watch with busted glass. He flicked it open and read the inscription: TO MY SONHECTOR.
“What happened?” Meade’s voice. “Word had it he paid fare for a coach.”
“The most unrewarding coins he ever spent, I daresay.” Mr. Willmott retrieved the pocket watch. “Some of you men gather his body, if you please, and deliver him to the church. In the morn, I shall talk with the vicar about arranging a hasty burial.”
Tom stepped forward. “Sir, whoever did this—”
“McGwen, I am in no temperament for your badgering tonight.” He waved dismissively. “I have already been summoned from a very pleasant sleep, dragged out into this infernal mud, and been forced to behold a sight which shall likely unsettle tomorrow’s breakfast.” As Brownie and the hostlers draped blankets over the body, then loaded him into a cart, the justice of the peace marched away from the garden.
Tom followed. “Someone must have seen something.”
“A matter which shall be investigated fully tomorrow.”
“How did—”
“He sustained a devastating blow to the head, if his cracked skull is any indication. I do not suppose you had anything to do with this, hmm, McGwen? You were, after all, the only fool I know of who had interest in a lowly ratcatcher.”
“Ye know better than that.”
“Perhaps I do.” Mr. Willmott yanked open the door of his waiting carriage. “But plague me anymore tonight and I shall have the constable throw you in the village lockup on suspicion of murder.” Climbing inside, he threw back a wry grin. “Pleasant night, McGwen.”
Tom’s legs stiffened as the carriage rumbled away into the darkness.
Meade slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks to me like your bloodhound nose wasn’t far from the scent.”
Which mattered very little now.
The scent was dead.
“Our friend Hector must’ve known a heap more’n someone wanted told.”
