Page 72 of What Cannot Be Said

“A lad brought this to the door some ten minutes ago,” said the majordomo, his face expressionless as he held out a silver salver upon which lay a badly folded square of cheap, grubby paper. “He said it was for ‘the Viscount,’ then ran off without saying more.”

“Odd,” said Sebastian, unfolding the dirty, crumpled page.

The message was short and crudely lettered in pencil. I got sumthin I gotta tel ye. It was signed Coldfield.

Sebastian looked up. “Describe the lad.”

Morey shrugged. “Small. Thin. Filthy dark hair and dirty face. Ragged clothes. Looked as if he might be a crossing sweep or perhaps a stable boy, although I can’t say I’ve ever seen him in the area. He’s not one of the lads typically used to deliver messages around here.”

Sebastian fingered the cryptic note, then turned toward the stairs. “Send a message to the stables to have my carriage brought around immed—no, better make that half an hour. I need to get out of these wet clothes.”

?By the time Sebastian reached the thatcher’s dilapidated cottage near Richmond Park’s Petersham Gate, the rain had slowed to a drizzle that pattered on the carriage roof and dimpled the puddles standing in a low ditch beside the road.

In the gloomy light of the overcast afternoon, the cottage looked deserted: The broken gate still hung open, and no smoke curled from the chimney. Sebastian stepped down to the lane’s muddy verge and then paused, one hand still on the carriage door as he let his gaze roam over the ruined garden, the pile of thatching tools, the ramshackle outbuildings. The cottage door stood open perhaps a foot, but he could see no movement within, hear no trace of sound.

“I don’t like that cold wind,” he said, glancing up at his coachman. “Better walk them.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Acutely conscious of the unnatural stillness, Sebastian crossed the road. At the gate he paused again, a sense of uneasiness that he didn’t like crawling up his spine. Brushing through the wet, rain-beaten tangle of basil and tansy overgrown with nettles and thistles that hung over the walkway, he stopped before the partially open door.

“Coldfield?” he called, then raised his voice. “Coldfield.”

Silence.

Sebastian was turning away, intending to check the outbuildings, when he heard a faint whine coming from inside the cottage. He stopped. “Bounder? Is that you?”

The whine came again, along with the soft thumping of a dog’s tail.

“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian under his breath. He hesitated a moment, then reached down to slip the knife from his boot and pushed the door open wide.

Of one room only, the gloomy interior of Cato Coldfield’s cottage was as ill-kempt and slovenly as its exterior, with dusty cobwebs hanging from the exposed beams overhead and a hard earthen floor in need of sweeping. A rusting pot of what looked like burnt stew sat moldering on the cold hearth; a stale half loaf of bread and a scattering of food-encrusted dishes littered the surface of the nearby crude table. The air reeked of unwashed clothes, urine, and excrement heavily overlain with the unmistakable stench of blood.

“Damn,” whispered Sebastian.

Cato Coldfield lay sprawled on his back not far from the opening of the large stone fireplace. His face was pale, his arms flung stiffly out, his eyes wide and dry and protuberant. The little black-and-white dog, Bounder, huddled whimpering beside his dead master’s head.

“It’s all right, boy,” Sebastian said gently, going to crouch down beside the dead man. “Everything’s going to be all right.” Yanking off one glove, he touched the back of his hand to Cato’s pallid cheek. The dead man was utterly cold, but his head moved: The rigor mortis that still stiffened his arms and legs was starting to go off.

Sebastian studied the pulpy mess someone had made of the man’s chest. From the looks of things, he’d been both shot and stabbed. “Lovely,” said Sebastian under his breath.

Bounder whined, looking up at Sebastian with hurt, pleading eyes, his tail moving feebly as Sebastian reached to run his hand down the dog’s sides. “You all right there, boy?”

Bounder ducked his head, his tail thumping again.

One comforting hand still resting on the dog, Sebastian let his gaze travel around the dim, cluttered space. The room might be untidy, but it showed no visible signs of having been the scene of a struggle. Sebastian brought his gaze back to focus on the body beside him. Given Coldfield’s distance from his door, Sebastian suspected the thatcher had either left the door open and been surprised by his murderer or...

Or he’d welcomed his killer inside.

“So which was it, Bounder? Hmm?” asked Sebastian, bringing his attention back to the dog.

But Bounder only looked up at him with dark, desperately pleading eyes.

?“This makes no sense,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy several hours later.

He stood with Sebastian beside what was left of Cato Coldfield, the magistrate’s chin resting on his chest as he stared down at the thatcher’s bloody corpse. From outside came the voices of the half dozen or so men who’d been organized to search the outbuildings and surrounding area.

“No,” agreed Sebastian, his arms crossed at his chest.

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